COTTAGE  PIE 


By  A.NEIL  LYONS 


n(a^a^WoD^^or:::> 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


TED  BARRETT 


COTTAGE   TIE 


Br  THE   SAME   AUTHOR 
Arthur's.     Second  Edition. 
Sixpenny  Pieces.     Second  Edition. 


COTTAGE  PIE 

A   COUNTRY  SPREAD 
BT  A.    \EIL   Lro:NiS 


LONDON   :    JOHN    LANE,    THE    BODLEV   HEAD 
NEfT   rORK   :    JOHN   LANE    COMPANT    MCMXI 


THIRD   EDITION 


WILLIAM    BKENDON    A^D   SON,    LTD  ,    rRINTEiiS,    PLYMOUTH 


6  02,3 


NOTE 


Some  portions  of  this  book  were  .written  in 
Buckinghamshire,  about  five  years  ago.  The 
greater  part  of  the  book,  however,  is  of  more 
recent  origin  and  was  written  at  the  author's 
present  home  in  Mid-Sussex.  Certain  words 
and  phrases  which  appear  in  some  of  the 
sketches  are  pecuHar  to  the  locality  in  which 
those  sketches  were  written  and  have  there- 
fore been  excluded  from  other  parts  of  the 
book. 


626209 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


in  ftp  ://www.arcli  ive.org/details/cottagepiecountrOOIyoniala 


C03iTE3iTS 

I. 

Mr.  Tracey 

PACK 

3 

II. 

Catherine  Wheels 

12 

III. 

A  Naturalist 

i8 

IV. 

Mr.  Burpee 

22 

V/  V. 

The  Fool's  Garden 

•         30 

VI. 

Poor  Mr.  Welcome 

43 

-  VII. 

The  Foster-child 

52 

VIII. 

Mrs.  Sage's  Daughter 

59 

V,.       IX. 

Cuckoo        .... 

67 

X. 

Jack  o'  Clubs 

76 

XI. 

Rose-in-Hair 

86 

XII. 

Ivy  Leaves 

96 

XIII. 

Mr.  Tracey  Again 

107 

XIV. 

Arcady        .... 

117 

XV. 

A  Matter  of  Sheep 

122 

XVI. 

The  Heritage  Appointed  . 

127 

XVII. 

The  Sabbatarians  . 

•       139 

XVIII. 

Another  Mrs.  Tanquerav 

•     147 

y  XIX. 

The  Greatest  of  These   . 

«59 

/    XX. 

The  L.^dy  With  the  Fringe 

■     >74 

XXI. 

The  Cannibals 

'8s 

XXII. 

A  Fisherman's  Story 

202 

viii 

Contents 

XXIII. 

PAGE 

Tommy  Snooks  and  Bessie  Brooks    207 

XXIV. 

Jenner    .... 

.     219 

XXV. 

Mr.  Mullinger's  Joke 

.     229 

XXVI. 

A  Deal 

.     237 

XXVII. 

A  Frustrated  Elopement 

•     245 

XXVIII. 

The  Bodger 

■     252 

XXIX. 

Concerning  Ellen  May 

261 

XXX. 

Lamb-Stroke     . 

268 

XXXI. 

The  Little  Red  Man  . 

274 

XXXII. 

The  Case  of  Emma  Wicks 

.     290 

XXXIII. 

El  Dorado 

298 

XXXIV. 

Half-Mourning 

304 

XXXV. 

Auntie's  Husband 

310 

XXXVI. 

The  Little  Hare 

317 

XXXVII. 

Pepper's  Courtship 

326 

XXXVIII. 

The  Evangelist 

335 

XXXIX. 

Mr.  Tracey's  Adieu  !    . 

340 

XL. 

My  Lady's  Chariot 

346 

XLI. 

The  Kentry  Girl 

352 

XLII. 

Two  of  a  Mould 

358 

0 
COTTAGE   TIE 


^ 


COTTAGE   TIE 


I 

MR.    TRACEY 


Mr.  Tracey  was  highly  recommended  into 
my  existence  by  a  common  neighbour  of  ours  : 
an  elderly  lady,  the  widow  of  an  officer,  who 
meant  well.  I  mean  that  the  widow  meant 
well ;  although,  of  course,  I  don't  mean  that 
the  officer  didn't  mean — ^Tut !  you  will  have 
to  guess  what  I  do  mean.  My  thoughts  are 
never  coherent  when  they  dwell  upon  the 
subject  of  Mr.  Tracey. 

Mr.  Tracey  wrote  me  the  following  letter  : 

"  Sir, — Hearing  you  are  in  want  of  a  jobbing 
gardener,  by  day,  hour,  or  week,  I  am  highly 
recommended  by  Mrs.  Turner,  of  Sloe  Cottage. 
I  am  inform  you  have  took  the  little  old  ruin 
in  Sludge  Lane,  and  if  anybody  can  make 
anything  of  such  a  place  I  can  do  it,  having 
known  the  said  place  for  56  year,  man  and 
boy,  before  ever  it  got  into  such  a  state  of 
neglect  and  dispair.  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear 
from  you  at  your  earliest,  as  there  is  a  lot  of 
work  about  just  now.     I  was  for  eighteen 


Cottage  Pie 


years  with  Major-General  Tinker,  late  of  this 
parish,  which  he  left  to  get  married,  and  nine 
year  with  his  father  before  him,  which  built 
the  property,  five  as  under  and  the  rest  as 
head.  So  such  a  little  old-fashioned  place  as 
yours  will  be  child's  play  to  me.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  hear  if  you  are  ready  to  avail  yourself 
of  my  services,  likewise  Mrs.  Turner,  as  the 
Rev.  Plummer,  of  your  parish,  say  to  me 
as  her  hedges  was  looking  wild  his  last 
visit. — Your  obedient 

"  William  Tracey. 


"  Blowfield,    Sussex, 
post  office,  going  up." 


Third    house    past 


With  this  explicit  direction  to  guide  me, 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  residence  of 
Mr.  Tracey,  the  identity  of  which,  indeed, 
was  placed  beyond  doubt  by  a  neatly  painted 
sign,  setting  forth  the  vocations  of  Mr. 
Tracey  in  these  terms  : 


Mr.  Wm.  tracey. 

Jobbing  Gardr.,  Chimney 

Sweep,  Boot-maker,  &c. 

Pony  and  Trap  for  Hire 
French  Polishing. 


In  order  to  arrive  at  Mr.  Tracey's  door, 
you  had  to  climb  up  a  great  many  age-worn 


Mr.   Tracey  5 

steps  :  for  Blowfield  is  a  nice  old  Sussex 
town,  built  in  the  nice  old  Sussex  manner, 
on  a  clay  foundation.  In  climbing  Mr. 
Tracey's  steps,  I  looked  upward  and  beheld 
at  Mr.  Tracey's  parlour  window  a  grave  and 
speculative  countenance,  surrounded  by  well- 
kept  whiskers.  After  viewing  my  ascent 
with  an  attentive  air,  as  if  some  miracle 
attached  to  it,  the  grave  and  specula- 
tive countenance  came  nearer  and  gradu- 
ally extended  itself  and  spoke.  "  You 
ain't  brought  it  then  ? "  demanded  the 
face. 

*'  Brought  what  ?  "  .1  inquired. 

"  Ain't  you  the  young  man  from  the 
wheelwright's  ?  "  demanded  the  face. 

"  I  am  not,"  responded  your  servant. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  face.  "  Then  I  suppose 
you'll  be  wanting  somebody  ?  " 

"  I  want  Mr.  Tracey,"  assented  your 
servant. 

"I  he  Mr.  Tracey,"  replied  the  face. 
"  'Old  on  a  minute." 

The  face  then  vanished  :  but  before  I  had 
held  on  very  long,  it  suddenly  reappeared 
in  the  street  below  me,  and  I  saw  that  it  was 
attached  to  six-foot-two  of  portliness,  attired 
in   black.      "  Step    down    here,"    said    Mr. 


6  Cottage  Pie 

Tracey ;  "we  don't  reckon  to  use  our  front 
door  on  week  days." 

I  stepped  down,  and  having  obeyed  an 
imperative  command  to  "  tie  that  dog  up," 
I  followed  Mr.  Tracey  into  a  woodshed, 
where  I  respectfully  explained  my  business. 
Mr.  Tracey,  spreading  a  large  hand  over 
the  surface  of  his  spotless  black  waistcoat, 
respectfully  examined  me  from  hat  to  toe. 

"  So  you  be  the  party  what  has  took  the 
old  place  in  Sludge  Lane  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Tracey :  and  upon  my  assenting  to  this 
assumption,  he  coughed  in  a  manner  which 
said  more  clearly  than  words  that  I  had  the 
appearance  of  such  a  party. 

"  Me  and  my  son  will  meet  you  there  at 
nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,"  announced 
Mr.  Tracey. 

"  Your  son  !  "  I  echoed. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Tracey  firmly,  "  my  son. 
We  always  go  out  together :  ninepence  a 
hour  the  two." 

I  wanted  to  tell  Mr.  Tracey  that  I  had  not 
bargained  for  a  son  :  that  I  could  not  afford 
a  son.  But  Mr.  Tracey  awed  me.  His 
manner  was  suave  :  but  at  the  same  time 
grand  and  distant :  and  there  was  an  air  of 
conscious,  whiskered  worth  about  him,  as  he 


Mr.  Tracey  7 

stood  before  me,  idly  toying  with  a  massive 
"  albert  "  watch-chain,  which  froze  the  con- 
templated impertinence  upon  my  lips.  It  was 
difficult  to  realise  that  this  dignified  gentle- 
man with  the  speculative  manner  could  be 
tempted  by  gold  to  traffic  with  a  dirty 
spade.  .  .  .  When  the  thought  became  too 
awful,  I  stole  away. 

Mr.  Tracey  appeared  next  morning  at  the 
appointed  spot,  his  son  with  him.  The 
latter  I  perceived  (not  without  a  secret 
twinge  of  regret)  was  just  a  normal  youth 
in  corduroy  and  freckles.  But  Mr.  Tracey 
himself  appeared  to  greater  advantage  than 
ever,  not,  it  is  true,  in  the  sober  habit  of 
yesterday,  but  in  a  suit  of  Melton  cord, 
which,  while  transforming  him  from  a  wealthy 
banker  into  a  county  Justice,  diminished 
none  of  his  importance. 

It  had  been  my  intention  to  explain  to 
Mr.  Tracey  my  wishes  respecting  the  work 
which  he  had  undertaken  to  perform.  But 
Mr.  Tracey  relieved  me  of  this  duty.  "  We 
need  not  enter  into  no  explanations,"  said 
Mr.  Tracey.  "  I  see  exactly  what  is  'panted 
yere.  It  want  a  little  ole-fashioned,  antikew 
sort  o'  place  makin'  yere." 

*'  I  thought " 


8  Cottage  Pie 

"  No  good  thinkin'  anything  yet  awhile," 
asserted  Mr.  Tracey.  "  We  got  to  fini  the 
blessed  garden  first." 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Tracey  seized  a 
dreadful-looking  implement  and  lunged  at  a 
plum  tree.  I  took  the  liberty  of  arresting 
his  arm.  "  I  don't  want  any  trees  cut  down," 
I  said. 

"  No  trees  cut  down  ? "  repeated  Mr. 
Tracey.  "  Come,  come,  sir  !  Why,  Major- 
General  Tinker,  when  'e  be  a-makin'  of 
his  Eyetalian  garden,  'e  cut  down  a  matter 
of  jorty  trees  !  " 

Even  this  distinguished  precedent  failed 
to  alter  my  determination.  I  am  firm  on 
the  subject  of  trees,  and  I  was  able  to 
induce  Mr.  Tracey  to  reaHse  that  fact:  It 
was  my  only  victory.  Henceforward,  Mr. 
Tracey  and  General  Tinker  had  it  all  their 
own  way. 

Mr.  Tracey  explained  that  the  garden  would 
require  a  rose-walk.  Major-General  Tinker 
always  said  that  no  garden  was  complete 
without  a  rose- walk.  "  We  shall  want  a  few 
shillingsworth  of  wood  for  that,"  said  Mr. 
Tracey  :    "I  suppose  I  can  order  it  ?  " 

A  few  days  later,  two  large  waggons 
arrived  in  Sludge  Lane,  containing  logs  of 


Mr.  Tracey  9 

wood  and  ten-foot  poles,  and  the  forester-in- 
charge  respectfully  presented  me  with  a  bill 
for  eight-pounds-something. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  I  said  to  Mr.  Tracey. 

"  Oh,"  responded  Mr.  Tracey,  "  it's  all 
right.  This  be  the  few  poles  an'  that  what  I 
ordered  for  your  rose-walk." 

"Then  this,"  I  said  with  bitterness,  "is 
your  idea  of  a  few  shillings  ?  "  and  I  showed 
Mr.  Tracey  the  little  bill. 

"  Why,  God  bless  you,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Tracey,  with  mild  amusement,  "  the  wood 
what  we  used  for  General  Tinker's  rose- walk, 
that  cost  the  General  nigh  on  ninety  pound  !  " 

Mr.  Tracey  also  ordered  on  my  behalf  a 
few  shillingsworth  of  broken  bricks  with 
which  to  make  a  path.  When  I  suggested 
that  cinders  would  perhaps  be  cheaper,  Mr. 
Tracey  nearly  swooned.  "  I  was  under  the 
himpression,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Tracey,  "  that 
what  we  was  to  make  of  this  was  a  little, 
old-fashioned,  antikew  sort  o'  place.  Cin- 
ders !  " 

Mr.  Tracey  has  great  faith  in  the  value  of 
decayed  iron.  Major-General  Tinker,  in  set- 
ting out  his  terrace  and  topiary  avenue, 
unearthed  an  old  iron  cauldron,  valued  by 
Mr.  Tracey  at  "  a  'undred  pound,  or  maybe 


lo  Cottage  Pie 

two."  Mr.  Tracey  is  modestly  conscious  of  his 
own  shortcomings  as  a  judge  of  old  iron  ; 
but  he  believes  that  amongst  the  other 
advantages  conferred  upon  me  by  what  he 
calls  **  college  schooling "  is  the  gift  of 
identifying  the  real  Early  English  thing  in 
hardware  at  a  glance.  He  therefore  made 
a  large  collection  of  paralytic  kettles  and 
broken  clock-weights,  of  which  a  rich  seam 
existed  on  the  property ;  and  of  these  he 
soon  composed  a  large  rick,  the  additions  to 
which  I  was  invited  to  examine  every  morning 
with  a  view  to  ear-marking  any  article  which 
might  be  worth  a  hundred  pound  or  two. 

Mr.  Tracey  has  long  since  completed  the 
process  of  finding  the  garden ;  but,  in  the 
meantime,  he  has  lost  it  again  :  having  dug 
in  every  visible  object  three  times.  The 
process  of  making  a  proper,  old-fashioned, 
antikew  little  place  of  it  has  already  endured 
for  five  months  ;  and  Mr.  Tracey  is  utterly 
unable  to  form  an  estimate  as  to  the  probable 
duration  of  the  rest  of  the  treatment.  "  Gen- 
eral Tinker's  garden  took  seven  year  to  make," 
Mr.  Tracey  informs  me,  "  and  properly 
speaking,  if  you  can  unnerstand  my  meaning, 
it  wasn't  really  -finished  until  seven  year 
arter  that." 


Mr.  Tracey  ii 

Myself,  I  am  tired,  as  well  as  cold,  having 
been  forced,  in  Mr.  Tracey's  interest,  to 
pawn  all  but  the  statutory  minimum  of  my 
apparel ;  but  Mr.  Tracey  is  getting  fresher 
every  day,  and  seconded  by  his  son  he  digs 
up  and  digs  in  with  unabated  zest. 

Only  this  morning  he  brought  me  an 
early  British  salmon-tin  (excavated  from  the 
neighbourhood  of  a  quince  tree)  together 
with  a  proposition  : 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  bin  thinking,  sir  ?  " 
he  said.  **  I  bin  thinking  as  we  shall  have  to 
dig  a  little  ornamental  lake.  General  Tinker 
he  often  say  to  me  that  a  lake  was  the  prin- 
cipal thing  in  a  garden.  It  would  look  proper 
and  antikew,  a  little  lake  at  the  end  there. 
You  could  kip  eels  in  it,  too." 

I  am  going  to  put  Mr.  Tracey  up  to  auction. 
But,  in  the  meantime,  could  I  lend  or  let 
him  ?    He  is  highly  recommended. 


II 

CATHERINE   WHEELS 


The  worst  of  my  lane  in  spring-time  is  that 
the  tramps  infest  it  so.  "  Tramp "  is  a 
technical  term  employed  by  agriculturists 
and  Retired  Gentry  to  describe  all  strangers 
below  the  rank  of  a  sewing-machine  tout. 

Being  by  nature  a  local  and,  indeed, 
domestic  patriot,  I  naturally  share  the  local 
antipathy  to  these  persons — insubordinate, 
unhygienic  persons — who  sleep  under  hedges, 
play  nap  under  hedges,  swear,  steal  water 
out  of  people's  ponds,  and  omit  to  touch 
their  caps. 

They  take  all  sorts  of  liberties,  these  persons. 
One  vagrom  fellow  came  lately  to  my  door 
and  besought  the  loan  of  a  screw-driver. 
Another  demanded  salt.  Salt!  I  swear  it. 
As  if  one  was  a  sort  of  relieving  officer,  don't 
you  know.  Not  to  mention  their  "  Dread- 
noughts "  which  one  has  to  pay  for. 

This  trickster  possessed  a  liquorish  leer, 
and,  perhaps,  was  not  lawfully  wedded  to 
his  wife.    So  to  spite  him  I  spoke  thus  : 

"  Open  the  kitchen  door  (wipe  your  boots, 

12 


Catherine  Wheels  13 

please),  and  on  the  second  shelf  of  the  dresser 
you  will  see  a  red  jar.  Open  it  and  you'll 
find  two  packets ;  the  white  one  contains 
salt.  Take  what  you  want,  and  close  the 
packet  carefully  and  put  it  back  in  the  jar 
and  shut " 

But  before  I  could  finish,  the  fellow  took 
to  his  heels.  Living  in  a  Christian  country, 
he  supposed  me  to  be  mad.   Thus  I  spited  him. 

So  recently  as  this  morning  another  of 
these  creatures  came  snivelling  round.  This 
was  a  female  creature,  and  she  had  the 
impudence  to  ask  for  a  flower. 

I  stared  at  her. 

She  was  juvenile  and  her  manners  were 
not  nice :  nor  was  she  perfectly  combed.  She 
wore  a  corporeal  garment  of  vivid  pink,  and 
her  legs  were  clad  in  faded  yellow  stockings. 
She  grinned  at  me  familiarly. 

I  still  stared  at  her. 

But  she  kept  her  nerve.     She  spoke  : 

"  Come  on,  young  man ;  give  us  a 
flower." 

"  Little  girl,"  I  said,  "  what  is  your 
name  ?  " 

"  Sis,"  replied  the  little  girl. 

**  And  what  do  you  say,"  I  demanded, 
suddenly  recollecting  the  formula. 


14  Cottage  Pie 

"  Please,  I  donH  think,"  responded  Sis, 
protruding  her  tongue. 

I  offered  her,  as  it  were,  a  Christian  smile 
and  told  her  she  was  rude.  "  Where  do  you 
come  from  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Along  o'  the  pictures,"  answered  Sis. 

"  What  pictures  ?  "  I  demanded. 

**  The  hanimated  pictures,"  said  Sis ; 
*'  MacGuffky's.    I'm  a  show  girl." 

"  You  are,"  I  cordially  assented.  "  Which 
flowers  do  you  want  ?  " 

**  They  yaller  uns,"  said  Sis. 

To  rid  myself  of  this  disreputable  visitor, 
I  gathered  a  bunch  of  leopard's  bane — in 
point  of  fact,  it  pays  to  cut  such  stuff — and 
permitted  her  to  take  them. 

**  Gawd -love -ye -Catherine -wheels,"  cried 
the  visitor,  quite  unexpectedly,  and  all  in  one 
breath.  With  which  words  she  flung  herself 
earthward  and  performed  a  series  of  rapid 
and  shameless  somersaults  all  along  the  lane 
in  front  of  my  abode. 

The  dress  was  pink,  and  the  stockings 
were  of  faded  yellow ;  but  the  Catherine 
wheels  were — the  Catherine  wheels  were — 
they,  in  fact,  defied  my  feeble  powers  of 
terminology.  They  introduced  some  wholly 
new  and  indescribable  effects. 


Catheriiie  Wheels  15 

When  the  wheels  were  thoroughly  ex- 
hausted, they  unwound  themselves  and  sat 
up.  The  wheelwright,  having  collected  her 
doronicums,  held  out  a  hand.  **  So  long, 
mate,"  she  said  :  "  it's  time  I  got  back  to 
the  van.  I  got  my  ole  man's  dinner  to  git 
ready." 

"  You  are  married,  then  ? "  I  blandly 
inquired. 

"  Me  ?  "  cried  Sis.  "  Why,  I  ain't  been 
courtin'  'ardly  a  month.  I  ain't  only  twelve 
year  old.  You  got  a  well  be'ind  there,  ain't 
you  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  your  looks  and  your  be- 
haviour," I  admitted,  "are  not  those  of  a 
married  woman.     Who  is  your  old  man  ?  " 

**  Father  !  'E's  blind  o'  one  eye  and  'is 
right  arm  don't  act,  through  bein'  a  lion- 
tamer  when  'e  was  little.  He  takes  the  money 
now  along  o'  the  pictures  and  speaks  the 
lectures.    Got  any  tobaccer  for  'im  ?  " 

I  found  some  damaged  Navy  Cut. 

Sis  immediately  began  to  revolve  again. 
This  was  evidently  her  substitute  for  thank 
you. 

The  first  spin  of  gratitude  had,  however, 
exhausted  most  of  Sis's  breath,  and  the 
fresh  display  ended  more  quickly. 


1 6  Cottage  Pie 

Having  swept  back  her  tresses,  the  un- 
orthodox arrangement  of  which  was  now 
more  marked  than  ever,  she  reverted  to  the 
subject  of  my  well.  "  'Ave  it  got  a  'andil  to 
wind  up  ?  "  demanded  Sis. 

I  admitted  that  it  had. 

"  'Tis  like  me  auntie's  well,  what  live  in 
Lincolnshire,"  explained  Sis.  **  We  got  a 
aunt  what  lives  in  a  'ouse." 

I  expressed  surprise  at  learning  of  this 
phenomenon. 

**  They  got  their  own  ingin  and  swings,** 
explained  my  visitor.  "  And  they  'ires  it 
out,  so  as  to  retire  on  their  means.  They 
lived  in  a  *ouse  for  a  long  time  now.  That's 
got  a  well,  the  same  as  yourn.  And  two 
rooms  up  top.  That's  got  a  garden,  wi'  yaller 
flowers  the  same  as  this.  They  got  a  wood- 
shed and  a  apple-lorft  and  a  place  where  my 
auntie  bile  the  bed-sheets.  They  got  bees  in 
their  garden,  and  they  don't  sting  nobody, 
not  without  you  put  your  'and  in. 

"  Auntie,  she  says  as  /  shall  live  in  a  'ouse 
one  day,  if  I'm  a  good  gal  and  works  'ard. 
I  git  a  lot  o'  pennies  sometimes  for  the 
Catherine  wheels.  I  shall  'ave  a  well  outside 
my  'ouse  ;  and  a  'andil,  so's  to  wind  it  up." 

Seeing  that  a  properly  constituted  well  has 


Catherine  Wheels  17 

got  to  be  built  with  bricks,  and  seeing  that 
even  inferior  bricks  cost  a  penny  each,  one 
couldn't  help  wondering,  don't  you  know, 
how  often  the  Catherine  wheel  would  have  to 
revolve  before  that  well  held  water.  Still,  at 
the  same  time — as  I  ventured  to  suggest  to 
her — ^if  half  a  dozen  bricks  were  any  use  to 
begin  with,  why 

"  Gawd-love-ye  :  Catherine  wheels ! "  cried 
the  wheelwright,  putting  the  sixpence  between 
her  teeth  and  revolving  frantically. 

"  I — I  shall  'ave  a  sink  in  my  'ouse,"  she 
resumed  a  little  later,  breathing  with  diffi- 
culty. "  And  a  copper  to  bile  the  bed-sheets 
in.  And  two  rooms  on  top,  with  steps  to  go 
up  to  them. 

**  I  shall  'ave  a  locker  on  the  wall,  with  'am 
inside  of  it  and  a  bottle  of  whiskey  for  my 
old  man,  and  a  glass  to  drink  it  out  of,  so  as 
to  cheer  him  up  because  'e  be  blind  o'  one  eye. 

*'  I  shall  'ave  a  carpet  on  the  floor  and 
gramophone  in  the  winder,  same  as  you  see 
in  the  pubs. 

*'  I  shall  'ave  a  lid  to  my  well,  the  same  as 
what  you've  got,  and  a  'andil,  so's  to  wind  it 
up  and  wind  it  down." 

"Houpla!    Ovah!" 

The  Catherine  wheel  began  again. 


Ill 

A   NATURALIST 


"  I  SHALL  be  late  for  me  tea  agin,"  said  Mr. 
Green.  **  Not  that  moi  tea  matter.  I  got  a 
lot  o'  work  to  do  this  evenin* — wroitin'  out 
accounts  an'  that.  Not  that  moi  work 
matter  to  anybody." 

"  You  are  a  Pessimist,  Mr.  Green,"  I 
observed. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Green  ;    "  a  Plumber." 

"  You  look  at  the  sad  side  of  things,"  I 
explained ;  "  you  undervalue  your  own 
happiness." 

"  Look  what  a  miserable,  muddy  world  it 
is,"  responded  Mr.  Green.  "  Look  how  people 
put  on  you.  That  don't  'arf.  'old  some  water, 
this  blessed  well.  I  never  reckoned  on  all  this 
water  when  I  put  the  job  at  seven  shillin'." 

**  Have  you  heard  the  nightingale  yet, 
Mr.  Green  ?  "  I  inquired  hastily. 

"  That  I  'ave,"  said  Mr.  Green.  "  'Hard 
the  blighter  three  week  agoo." 

*'  You  were  in  luck  !  "  I  exclaimed  ad- 
miringly.    "  Sure  it  was  the  nightingale  ?  " 

i8 


A  Naturalist  19 

"  That  I  be,"  asserted  Mr.  Green.  "  'Im 
what  say  *  Pewee  !  Pewee ! '  all  the  bloody 
night." 

I  dissembled  my  surprise.  "  Most  people," 
I  pointed  out,  "  speak  well  of  the  nightin- 
gale." 

*'Ugly  great  beast,"  said  Mr.  Green — "flap- 
pin'  'is  white  wings  were  'e  beant  wanted. 
*  Pewee  !  Pew-eo. !  ¥e-wee  !  '  'e  say,  same's 
if  anybody  was  took  ill.  Meself,  I  never  did 
ownerstand  why  so  much  fuss  be  made  about 
im. 

"  The  note,  or  sound,  which  you  describe," 
I  said,  **  is  not  altogether  characteristic  of  the 
nightingale.  He  does  not  always  imitate  the 
plover." 

"  That  be  the  plover,"  stated  Mr.  Green, 
greatly  to  my  surprise.  "  Nightingale,  plover, 
or  peweet,  'tis  one  and  the  same  bird.  They 
put  it  in  the  story  books  where  a  woman 
are  got  the  nightingale's  sweet  voice.  'Tis 
true  enough,  I  will  allow,  though  where  the 
sweetness  of  it  come  in  I  never  did  see. 
Screechin'  passel  o'  monkeys " 

"  It  is  curious,"  I  reflected,  **  that  different 
men  should  derive  such  different  emotions 
from  the  same  experiences." 

"  Say  it  slower,  sir,"  suggested  Mr.  Green. 


20  Cottage  Pie 

"  Many  people  like  the  nightingale  better 
than  any  other  bird,"  I  said. 

**  They're  the  sort,"  responded  Mr.  Green, 
"  as  like  women." 

"  Don't  you  like  women  ?  "  I  inquired. 

**  Screechin'  passel  o'  monkeys,"  repeated 
Mr.  Green. 

"  Some  men  like  the  sound  of  women's 
voices,"  I  submitted. 

"They  be  the  sort,"  said  Mr.  Green,  "as 
would  Hke  the  screechin'  of  a  nightingale." 

"  Ah  well,"  I  mused,  "it  is  a  question  of 
temperament,  I  suppose." 

"  Of  what  ?  "  said  Mr.  Green. 

"  Temperament,"  I  repeated. 

"  I  donno  narthin'  about  temper  meant," 
quoth  Mr.  Green.  "  Temper  meant  or  not, 
they  be  for  ever  screechin'." 

"  Which — the  nightingales  ?  " 

"  Or  the  women,"  said  Mr.  Green.  "  'Tis 
the  same  thing.  A  nightingale  aren't  got 
narthin'  better  to  do,  on'y  cry  out  *  Pewee — 
Pe-wee '  all  the  blessed  night,  and  a  woman 
aren't  got  narthin'  better  to  do  on'y  carry 
on  the  same  infernal  tune." 

"But  nightingales  sing  pleasantly  at  times." 

"  Never  to  moi  'earin',"  said  Mr.  Green. 
"  'Tis  a  scattle-tongued  bird." 


A   Naturalist  2 1 

"  Beauty,"  I  murmured,  "is  in  the  eye  of 
the  beholder ;   and  music,  I  suppose,  is " 

"  Music  !  "  echoed  Mr.  Green.  "  D'ye  call 
that  music  ?  " 

"  Which  ?  " 

"  The  screechin'  of  women,"  said  Mr. 
Green ;  "or  nightingales.  'Tis  the  same 
thing.  They  be  both  for  ever  'oUerin*. 
Whether  you  it  *em  or  whether  you  don't." 

"  But  people  don't  hit  nightingales,"  I 
objected. 

"  Only  for  want  o'  the  chanst,"  responded 
Mr.  Green.  "  'Oo  wouldn't  'it  a  plaguesome 
creeter  same's  that  be  ?  *  Pe-wee  !  Pew-ee  !  ' 
'e  cry  out  all  the  bloody  night.  Puts  a  man 
in  mind  of  'is  wife." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  hitting  wives  ?  "  I 
suggested,  with  an  air  of  pleasantry. 

"  No  doubt  I  should,"  assented  Mr.  Green, 
"  on'y  I  aren't  possessed  of  no  sich  thing 
— on'y  a  old  aunt.  She  be  nightingale 
enough  for  me. 

"  *  Pewee  !  '  she  says  :  *  Pe-wee  !  Few- 
ee ! '  all  the  jolly  day,  and  'arf  the  bloody 
night.  'Pewee!  Pe-wee!  Ye-wee!* — jus' the 
same  as  a  ugly  ole  nightingale." 


IV 

MR.   BURPEE 


A  SHABBY  little  gentleman  came  pattering 
along  the  dusty  lane.  He  was  a  stout  little 
gentleman,  with  a  very  big  head,  on  which 
he  wore  an  extremely  small  black  hat. 

This  little  gentleman,  who  was  followed 
by  a  youthful  attendant  in  corduroys,  knocked 
at  the  door  of  a  wayside  cabin,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  occupied  by  myself. 

He  asked  me  if  I  lived  there.  I  replied, 
without  equivocation,  that  I  did. 

*'  Boy,"  cried  the  gentleman,  "  bring  it 
inside  the  gate  here  and  put  it  down." 

My  visitor's  attendant,  saluting  briskly, 
then  walked  in  and  deposited  at  my  feet  a 
large  wooden  box,  constructed  of  polished 
walnut  wood,  and  containing  (to  judge  from 
the  difficulty  with  which  the  porter  handled 
it)  some  extremely  weighty  substance. 

"  My  card,  sir,"  said  the  stout  gentleman, 
offering  me  a  printed  certificate  of  his  identity. 
I  learned  from  this  document  that  my 
visitor's  name  was  Burpee. 

"  I  have  the  honour,  sir,"  he  said,  "  to  be 

22 


Mr.  Burpee  23 

the  Mid-Sussex  representative  of  Messrs. 
Wolif  and  Co.,  London." 

I  nodded. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Burpee. 

I  nodded  again. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  repeated  Mr.  Burpee. 

I  waited  for  Mr.  Burpee  to  say  more,  but 
waited  in  vain.  It  became  evident  that  the 
next  move  was  mine.  "  Is  this  for  me  ?  " 
I  accordingly  inquired,  tapping  the  polished 
walnut-wood  box  with  the  toe  of  my  shoe. 

'*  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Burpee,  stooping 
down  and  gently  rubbing  the  point  of  contact 
with  a  corner  of  his  jacket. 

I  noticed,  when  he  stood  up  again,  that  his 
face  was  red  and  damp  :  that  there  was  dust 
in  his  hair  and  on  his  lips. 

"  You  have  walked  far  .?  "  I  inquired. 

"  From  Blowfield  Station — five  and  a  half 
miles,"  he  replied.  **  Of  course,"  he  added, 
"  I've  had  a  rest  or  two  on  the  way." 

"  Of  course,"  I  assented.  I  looked  at  the 
box  of  polished  walnut  wood  and  smiled — 
a  little  sadly. 

"  With  A.  Wolff  and  Co.'s  compliments," 
said  Mr.  Burpee,  looking  from  the  box  to  me. 

"  A  cup  of  tea  ?  "  I  said,  raising  an  interro- 
gative eyebrow. 


24  Cottage  Pie 

"  That  would  be  extremely  kind  of  you," 
said  Mr.  Burpee,  seating  himself  gently  on 
the  walnut-wood  box.  "  Allow  me,  sir,"  he 
added  with  a  prodigious  sniff,  **  to  congratu- 
late you  upon  the  size  and  perfume  of  your 
Nicotina  afflnis." 

"  What  will  the  boy  drink  ?  "  I  demanded, 
with  a  bow. 

The  boy  spoke  for  himself.  "  Don't  you 
trouble  naarthun  to  make  no  tea  for  me, 
sir,"  he  said.    "  A  glass  of  ale  will  do  for  me." 

A  little  later  I  resumed  my  dialogue  with 
Mr.  Burpee.  "  It  is  a  pity,"  I  said,  indicating 
the  walnut-wood  box  again,  "  that  you've 
had  to  carry  it  so  far.  I'm  afraid  you  will 
have  to  carry  it  farther." 

Mr.  Burpee  sighed  gently  as  he  decanted 
a  small  quantity  of  tea  into  his  saucer. 
"  You  know  best,  sir,"  he  said.  "  But  Messrs. 
Wolff  and  Co.  supplied  me  with  very  strong 
hopes." 

"  Had  you  been  what  I  first  imagined  you 
to  be,"  I  continued,  *'  we  might  perhaps  have 
.  .  .  Do  you  know  what  I  thought  ?  When 
you  first  came  round  the  bend  and  before 
the  boy  appeared  I  felt  sure  that  you  tuned 
pianos.  I  hope  that  you  won't  be  offended. 
I  judged  by  the  dust  on  your  boots." 


Mr.  Burpee  25 

'*  No,"  said  Mr.  Burpee,  "  you  don't  offend 
me  in  the  least.  You  rather  flatter  me.  I 
would  give  much  to  be  in  the  musical  line — 
to  travel,  as  it  were,  with  flutes." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  again  referring  to  the 
walnut-wood  case,  "you  do  the  next  best 
thing." 

Mr.  Burpee  looked  a  little  puzzled.  Pre- 
sently the  expression  of  doubt  departed  from 
him  and  he  nearly  smiled.  **  I  do  believe," 
he  said,  "  that  we  have  been  at  cross-purposes 
all  this  time.  This  here  is  not  a  gramophone !  " 

"  Isn't  it !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Burpee.  "  This  here  is  a 
sewing-machine.  Under  these  circumstances, 
sir,  perhaps  Messrs.  Wolff  were  not  mistaken 
in  holding  out  the  hopes  which " 

I  shook  my  head.  "  My  simple  needs," 
I  was  forced  to  assure  him,  **  are  fully 
gratified  by  one  small  card  of  patent  buttons 
and  a  gimlet." 

"  Messrs.  Wolff,"  he  answered,  "  have 
empowered  me  to  leave  it  here  for  one  month 
with  their  compliments.  You  don't  take  any 
risk,  you  know." 

"  Except,"  I  suggested,  again  eyeing  the 
walnut-wood  case,  "  that  it  is  so  much  the 
kind  of  thing  which  one  is  apt  to  fall  over." 


26  Cottage  Pie 

"  That,"  he  replied,  "  is  our  risk.  We 
never  claim  for  reasonable  damages."  He 
blew  on  his  saucer  thoughtfully. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  It's  a  pity  you've  had  to 
come  so  far  for  nothing." 

"Not  at  all,"  he  replied;  "though  I 
dare  say  Messrs.  Wolff  will  be  disappointed. 
You  see,  they  got  you  out  of  a  good  directory 
— a  very  genteel  directory." 

"  Never  mind  about  Messrs.  Wolff,"  I 
replied.  "  They  will  recover.  The  invigorat- 
ing air  of  Houndsditch  ..." 

He  nearly  smiled  again. 

**  I  only  hope  that  yoti  aren't  disappointed," 
I  added  awkwardly.  I  liked  his  mouth  and 
his  little  black  hat. 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Burpee. 
"  I  shall  leave  this  machine  on  somebody's 
step  some  day.  It  is  a  queer  sort  of  pastoral 
drama,  sir,  this  in  which  I  play." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  the  pastoral 
drama  ?  "  The  impertinence  bolted  from  my 
thoughts  to  my  tongue. 

"  I  have  read  the  play  in  which  Cobweb, 
Moth,  and  Mustard  Seed  are  figured,  sir." 

"  Oh,"  I  murmured,  and  looked  at  the 
walnut-wood  box. 

"  Before    I    took    to   shedding    lockstitch 


Mr.  Burpee  27 

machines  on  people's  doorsteps/*  pursued 
Mr.  Burpee,  "  I  used  to  peddle  dreams." 

"  You  did  what .?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Sold  dreams,  sir.  Are  you  acquainted 
with  the  Poet  Beddoes  ?  '* 

I  shook  my  head. 

Mr.  Burpee  got  up  from  the  box  and  care- 
fully deposited  his  cup  and  saucer  on  a  gate- 
post. "  I  have  the  honour  to  be  informed 
by  Messrs.  Wolff  that  you  are  an  author, 
sir  ?  "  he  said. 

I  nodded. 

"  Well,  sir,"  continued  Mr.  Burpee,  "  I 
take  it  that  in  some  sort  of  manner  of  degree 
you  too  are  a  pedlar  of  dreams.  The  Poet 
Beddoes  wrote  a  poem  called  *  Dream  Ped- 
lary.' Boy,  pick  up  that  box.  Steady,  now 
— mind  the  varnish  !  " 

**  Won't  you  take  another  cup  of  tea  ?  "  I 
interposed. 

**  For  several  years,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Burpee, 
ignoring  my  question,  "  I  walked  the  lanes 
with  a  very  similar  box  to  this,  which,  how- 
ever, contained  my  stock  of  dreams  :  the 
author  of  *  Cobweb,  Moth,  and  Mustard 
Seed,'  in  eight  octavo  volumes,  royal,  sir." 

"  Oh,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Burpee. 


28  Cottage  Pie 

''Oh!''  I  said  again. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  repeated  Mr.  Burpee.  "  But 
the  people  who  took  my  dreams,  sir,  offered 
me  beer  and  bacon  in  barter,  sir.  I  con- 
sidered the  exchange  unsatisfactory.  The 
sewing-machine  has  this  great  advantage  over 
poetry,  sir  :  you  don't  particularly  care  who 
handles  it,  sir,  so  long  as  his  payments  are 
punctual  and  satisfactory." 

By  this  time  Mr.  Burpee  had  walked 
through  my  gate  and  closed  it  behind  him. 

He  now  turned  round  and  rested  his  elbow 
on  the  gate.  "  I  will  give  you  a  line  or  two 
of  Beddoes  in  exchange  for  the  tea,  sir,"  he 
said. 

Then,  taking  off  his  little  round  hat,  and 
gazing  shyly  into  the  crown  of  it,  Mr.  Burpee 
spoke  as  follows  : 

"  If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
What  would  you  buy  ? 
Some  cost  a  passing  bell ; 
Some  a  light  sigh, 
That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell, 
And  the  crier  rung  the  bell, 
What  would  you  buy  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Burpee,"  I  said. 


Mr.  Burpee  29 

He  looked  at  me  over  his  hat-brijn.  "  You 
will  like  the  next  verse,"  he  said.  "  I  will 
give  you  the  next  verse  too  ;  just  that  one." 

He  looked  into  his  hat  again  and  began  : 

"  A  cottage  lone  and  still, 
With  bowers  nigh, 
Shadowy,  my  woes  to  still. 
Until  I  die. 
Such  pearl  from  Life's  fresh  crown, 
Fain  would  I  shake  me  down. 
Were  dreams  to  have  at  will. 
This  would  best  heal  my  ill, 
This  would  I  buy." 

He  put  on  his  little  hat  and  offered  me  an 
awkward  little  bow,  and  sighed  and  turned 
away. 

**  Mr.  Burpee,  Mr.  Burpee !  "  I  called 
out.  "  Come  back,  Mr.  Burpee.  I  want  to 
buy  that  sewing-machine." 

He  stopped  and  looked  back  at  me  and 
spoke. 

"  I  have  sold  you  a  dream,  sir,"  he  said. 
"  Be  content."  And  with  those  words  walked 
on. 


V 

THE   FOOL'S    GARDEN 


**  He  weer  a  Powit,  mestur.  That  be  the 
point  an'  peth  on  it.  Oi  bin  a  duU-thowted 
creature  all  moi  days,  an'  they  toimes  oi 
weer  stell  in  moi  maidenhood,  wi'  a  maiden's 
mumpses.  He  weer  a  Powit,  as  made  songs 
in  the  darkness,  though  crookid-legged  an' 
arl,  an'  much  praised  be  the  vicar.  He  weer 
a  Powit,  an'  oi  could  not  'oold  'is  fancy. 

"  Nut,  mind  yew,  but  what  he  come  back 
to  me  at  finish.  Pray,  yes !  He  come  back 
to  me  at  finish.  He  come  'oom  a  month 
whilst  the  end,  looking  glad  in  the  sun-close  ; 
though  poorly  be  roights  an'  shrunken,  wi' 
arl  the  scorn  wrung  out  of  'im,  an'  spaniel-dog 
eyes,  like  when  he  be  a  le'l  buy  an'  the  other 
buys  made  mock  to  'is  leg.  An'  'e  say  to  me  : 
*  Meggie,  Meggie  !     Mek  moi  bed  up  !  ' 

"  An  wi'  that,  he  walk  into  this  room  yare, 
an*  set  him  dowfi  on  thet  cheer  there,  same's 
ef  he  be  roighteously  got  back  from  a  yairff 
day's  warrk  ;  thoo  et  weer  foive  yeer  sence 
ever  oi  set  eyes  on  'im.     *  Lock  the  dower,' 

30 


The  FooVs  Garden  31 

says  'e,  when  'e  be  seated  ;  *  lock  the  dower  ! 
Oi'll  be  proivut  an'  serene  in  moi  own  'eowse/ 
*e  say. 

"  An'  wi'  that,  oi  knowed  as  the  wroitin*- 
wummun  fr'm  Lunnon  'ud  failed  to  'oold  'is 
fancy  likewise. 

"So  'e  set  theer,  drowsy  loike  an*  soilent, 
an'  oi  make  up  'is  bed,  an'  oi  carry  'im  to  ut. 
An*  *e  lay  theer  to  the  end,  shrunken  an' 
poorly  an*  drowsy-loike,  though  never  tan- 
kerous.  But  oi  hed  took  away  the  lavendar- 
sprays  from  the  cupboard,  an'  the  cage-finch 
what  lived  boi  the  winder,  becos  oi  knowed 
of  old  as  et  was  they-loike  fancies  what  often 
made  'im  tankerous.  Nor  'e  did  not  ask  to 
see  our  le'l  buy,  'is  son,  as  set  below  an' 
wondered,  dressed  up  in  'is  father's  weddin' 
soot  what  oi  hed  cut  down  for  'im  in  the 
winter. 

"An'  the  wroitin'-wummun  from  Lunnon, 
she  never  come  noigh,  with  'er  blewses  an' 
selks  an'  cock-robin  'ats,  the  sinful  harlot. 
Because  me  an'  moi  le'l  buy  we  waited  an' 
waited  for  her ;  an*  ef  she  had  come,  boi 
Gard,  moi  buy  he  should  'a*  spet  upon  her 
wi'  his  le'l  mouth  an'  struck  her  with  his 
le'l  fists,  boi  Gard,  he  should  ! 

"  Moi  man  knowed  nowt  o'   this,   for  *e 


32  Cottage  Pie 

lay  above  stairs,  so  poorly  an'  shrunken. 
That  seem,  yew  moight  say,  as  ef  he  knowed 
nowt  of  no  think.  That  seem  as  ef  he  never 
wanted  to  know  out,  any  more.  Sometimes 
that  would  'pear,  from  the  look  of  'im,  as 
ef  he  lay  an'  thought  o'  things — for  he  be  a 
Powit,  mester ;  and  his  moind  weer  mar- 
velled at  be  the  vicar — sometimes,  oi  say,  he 
would  'pear  to  lay  an*  thenk  o'  things ; 
sometimes  he  would  'pear  to  lay  an'  drowse, 
tho'  his  eyes  was  open  an'  clear.  Nor  he  weer 
never  what  yew  moight  carl  properly  tan- 
kerous  to  the  end.  When  he  wanted  out,  he 
would  thump  upon  the  fiewer-boards  wi'  a 
chair  as  stood  be  his  bedside  ;  an'  when  he 
wanted  nout,  he  would  lay  still.  An'  so  it 
went  along  from  day  to  day — 'im  never  bein' 
properly  tankerous,  but  never  arstin'  for  to 
see  our  le'l  lahd,  nor  never  tellin'  o'  the  past 
nor  of  'is  thoughts,  nor  speakin'  'ardly,  save 
to  airst  for  food  or  physic.  Nor  'e  didn't 
airst  for  much  o'  neether,  an'  Gard  knows 
theer  weer  little  in  the  'eouse  for  'im  to  airst 
for. 

"  Becos  the  season  were  not  fair  set  in  for 
work  in  the  fields  an'  that,  an'  the  lady 
what  I  odd-jobbed  for  had  hired  her  cottage 
to  some  fowks  from  Lunnon,  as  had  browt 


The  FooVs  Garden  33 

their  sarvant  wi*  them  :  an*  moi  man  bein* 
so  poorly,  oi  couldn't  leave  the  place  for 
long.  An'  there  was  nothink  from  the  parish 
then — I  draw  moi  fower  shillin'  reg'lar  now — 
because  I  was  not  widdowed,  an'  oi  did  not 
say  owt  during  they  foive  years  'e  weer  away 
for  fear  as  they  should  punish  'im — *e  'avin* 
a  crooked  leg. 

"  So  when  moi  man  come  'oom  at  lairst,  it 
weer  to  a  lean  cupboard.  'E  browt  not  a 
'appenny  'isself ;  an',  poor  though  we  was, 
I  thanked  Gard  for  the  marcy.  For,  save  the 
clothes  what  'e  wore,  moi  man  'e  come  'oom 
to  me  as  'e  come  to  'is  own  dead  mother — 
poorly  an'  shrunken  an'  naked. 

"  An*  so  the  days  went  on,  *im  layin' 
soilent-loike  an'  drowsy  on  'is  bed  above 
stairs  :  me  below,  makin'  what  shift  oi  could 
be  washin*  an'  manglin'  an'  the  loike,  an' 
waitin'  ready,  lest  'e  should  thump  the  flewer 
an'  me  not  yare.  An'  at  last — an  hour 
befower  the  end — he  carls  for  me  boi  name. 

"  An'  when  I  goes  into  the  chamber,  I 
could  see  as  'e  be  unusual  broight  about  the 
eyes.  An'  'e  look  at  me  shoi,  loike  when  'e 
was  le'l,  and  'e  airst  me  would  oi  lay  besoide 
*im  on  the  bed,  an'  'old  'is  *ead  between  moi 
airms.    An'  oi  done  as  'e  airst  me.   And  'e  say 

D 

\ 


34  Cottage  Pie 

to  me  :  '  Talk  about  yewr  gairden,  Meggie, 
an'  the  birds,  an'  the  thengs  in  the  woods.' 

"So  oi  done  as  'e  airst  me,  tho'  feeHn' 
very  awkwid  :  for  oi  knowed  as  in  the  oold 
days  sich  talk  as  thet  would  always  make 
*im  tankerous,  'e  bein'  a  Powit,  an'  'avin'  a 
marvellous  moind  as  a  set-off  to  the  leg.  Still, 
oi  make  shift  to  tell  'im  o'  the  lady-smock  in 
Vicarage  Medder ;  an'  the  'awthorns  as  be 
peepin',  an'  the  thrush's  ^^'g  as  our  le'l  lahd 
'ad  fund,  an'  'ow  the  yellowchicks  was  every- 
where, an'  the  candytuft  be  bloomin'  in  a  bed 
beneath  'is  winder. 

"An'  'e  say  to  me :  '  You  be  alius  fond  o* 
gairdens  an'  woods  an'  sich,  beant  yew,  ole 
Meggie  ?  '  And  oi  admitted  it,  that  bein* 
the  truth.     *  Well,'  say  he,  *  oi  beant.' 

"  That  was  true,  too  ;  an'  on'y  roight  an' 
nat'ral,  as  oi  toold  'im,  'e  bein'  a  Powit  an* 
man  o'  moind.  An'  'e  lairf  in  'is  stomach  : 
an'  e'  say  to  me,  '  Meggie,'  'e  say,  *  oi  will 
give  yew  a  motto  about  gairdens,  what  oi 
thowt  of  up  yare  ;  oi  want  yew  to  remamber 
it,'  'e  say,  '  for  it  is  the  best  motto  oi  ever 
made,  an'  it  is  the  truth  about  moi  gairden,* 
says  'e  :  *  which  the  motto  is  this  :  **  The 
fooVs  gairden  is  a  wilderness  o'  wisdom.'* 
That  is  the  motto,'  says  'e.    '  Keep  on  sayin' 


The  Poors  Garden  35 

it  to  yeself/  says  *e,  *so's  you'll  know  it  in 
about  twanty  minutes'  toime,  when  oi  beant 
'ere  to  tell  yew,'  'e  say. 

"  Oi  bin  sayin'  it  to  meself,  mester,  for  sex 
yare  now  ;  an'  it  down't  seem  to  carry  no  more 
meanin*  wi'  it  nowadays  than  when  moi 
man  fust  spoke  it.  But  a  man's  moind  that 
beant  never  at  its  best  when  'e  be  doi-in'. 

"  An'  yet  'e  went  on  to  talk  quite  rational : 
tellin'  me  not  to  wear  no  weeds  nor  that, 
an'  to  sell  the  bewks  downstairs — the  bewks 
you  was  airstin'  after,  mester — an*  not  to 
take  less  nor  twenty  p'und  for  'em.  Oi 
wouldn't  take  a  'undred  ! 

**  An'  oi  closed  'is  eyes  befower  the  twanty 
mennits.  An'  oi  laid  'im  out — so  poorly  an' 
shrunken  'e  was — an'  oi  shrouded  'im.  An' 
me  an'  moi  le'l  buy,  we  went  a-foot  to  bury 
'im.  An'  the  wroitin'-wummun  as  killed  'im, 
she  never  come  noigh  'is  grave. 

"  But  a  gentlem  come  from  Lunnon  to 
take  'is  bewks  for  a  debt.  So  oi  soold  the 
oold  cherry  wood  dresser  as  was  moi  granfer's 
mother's,  an'  oi  soold  moi  le'l  buy's  bed.  'E 
lay  warmer  alung  of  me,  with  'is  'ead  jest  so 
atween  moi  airms,  as  moi  man's  hed  useter 
be. 


36  Cottage  Pie 

"  Lat  me  mek  yew  another  brew  o'  tea  ? 
Now,  do,  xnester !  Oi  shairn't  chairge  yew 
no  extra.  Moi  son,  as  work  at  the  wood- 
turnin',  'eVe  took  the  key  o'  moi  cupboard 
in  'is  pocked.  Else  oi  would  ask  yew  taste 
moi  rhubarb  woine.  Pray !  Oi  could  'a* 
supped  a  drop  mese'f. 


"  'Ow  oi  fust  come  to  be  sweet-'airts  wi* 
moi  man  oi  couldn't  zackly  say  :  though  it 
begun,  in  a  manner  o'  speakin',  when  we  was 
so  *oigh.  Very  loikely,  it  was  the  both  on  us 
bein'  love-childs  what  drawed  us  together ; 
bein*  love-childs  an'  looked  down  on  be  the 
puer  fowk  o'  the  village.  That  an'  'is  poor 
leg. 

**  Moi  son  was  born  in  wedlock,  oi  thenk 
Gard !  'Twas  on'y  be  three  weeks,  oi  will 
admit ;  but  born  in  wedlock  'e  was,  wi'  the 
vicar's  own  name  to  the  stifficut.  There's  no 
woman  in  the  village  as  can  say  mower  for 
'er  son ;  an'  there's  many  as  must  say  less — 
be  a  fortnight. 

"It  is  a  cruel  fate  to  be  a  love-child. 
*Tis  'ard  an'  weariful  enough  for  them  as  is 
strong  an'  can  'it  back.  But  it  weer  in 
specially   a  plague   to  moi  poor  le'l  man, 


The  FooVs  Garden  37 

wi'  'is  crooked  leg  an'  white  face  an'  starin' 
eyes,  wi'  the  spaniel-dog  look  what  the  buys 
made  game  of. 

"  An'  so  I  felt  a  sorter  traction  to  'im. 
An'  many's  the  toime  I  stood  in  the  school- 
yaird  wi'  me  sleeves  turned  back,  an'  'ad  a 
Stan' -up  foight  wi'  some  o'  they  buUyin' 
louts  as  pestered  'im.  An'  one  o'  them  was 
Jim  Pooley,  over  to  Petterling  Mill  there, 
what  'as  bin  moi  best  friend  ever  since,  an' 
what  was  a  good  friend  to  moi  le'l  man, 
loikewoise,  when  oi  'ad  finished  threshin' 
'im. 

"So  in  the  schooldays  me  an'  moi  man 
we  be  always  together  :  an'  we  got  the  name* 
o'  bein'  sweet-'airts  even  then,  though  for  no 
reason  that  I  could  see,  'cept  yew  can  count 
'im  pullin'  moi  'air  about  when  tankerous. 

"  An*  later  on,  when  schooldays  be  over, 
we  was  still  about  together.  For  what  with 
'is  crooked  leg  an'  that,  an'  'im  bein'  fond  o' 
study  an'  bewks,  there  was  none  o'  the  lads 
as  would  take  up  wi'  'im,  nor  'e  wi'  them, 
for  that  matter,  save  Jim  Pooley,  as  be 
gen'ly  poloite  for  the  reason  oi  'ave  tole  yew. 
So  moi  le'l  man  an'  oi  we  would  walk  out 
together  most  of  the  evenin's,  'im  complainin' 
to  me  about  the  wood-turnin',  an'   'ow  *e 


38  Cottage  Pie 

*ated  it,  an'  'ow  'e  'ad  a  moind  to  be  a  Powit, 
the  same  as  Shakespeare,  an'  sell  bewks. 
And  o'  Sundays,  in  the  summer,  'e  would 
walk  me  over  the  'ills  there  to  Waller's 
Ooak,  as  is  named  after  a  gentleman  as 
lived  in  these  pairts  an'  wrote  powitry. 

"  And  'e  would  read  to  me  outer  Waller's 
book,  as  was  give  'im  to  school  for  a  proize. 
An'  oi  couldn't  make  much  of  it ;  on'y  moi 
le'l  man  was  'appy  a-settin'  under  the  oak 
there  wi'  his  bewk ;  and  oi  weer  'appy  too, 
for  it  is  a  foine  oold  oak,  all  twisted  an' 
twirly,  loike  smoke  when  it  comes  up  solemn 
from  a  dyin'  foire,  an'  there  weer  a  pond 
besoide  of  it,  an'  water-buttercups  as  blew 
there,  white  an'  bashful.  An'  still  we  'ad  the 
name  for  bein'  sweet-' airts,  an'  still  oi  couldn't 
see  for  whoi ! 

**  Then  come  the  Whitsun  Fair  down  be 
Petterling,  wi'  kiss-in-the-ring  come  night ful. 
An*  Jim  Pooley  'e  kisses  me.  An'  moi  le'l 
man,  as  be  'oldin'  'ands  wi'  me,  'e  come 
oover  wi'  a  sudden  whoiteness,  an'  'e  stroike 
Jim  Pooley  in  the  mouth.  An'  Jimmie  'e 
wiped  'is  mouth  an'  walked  away.  An'  oi  weer 
surry  for  Jim,  seein'  that  I  knowed  'im  to  be 
soft  about  me,  which  oi  weer  held  to  be  a 
comely  maiden,  having  had  a  Oirish  sailor 


The  FooVs  Garden  39 

for  my  father,  as  ran  away  before  I  come,  so 
that  moi  hair  be  black,  as  you  see,  though 
glossier  then,  wi'  blue  eyes  an'  a  fresh  skin. 
An'  oi  made  to  f oiler  Jimmie  for  to  comfort 
'im,  on'y  moi  le'l  fellar,  'e  'eld  moi  airrm. 
*  'Tis  me  or  'im  !  '  'e  say.  An'  there  weer  the 
spaniel-dog  look  in  'is  eyes. 

"  So  we  left  the  fair-ground,  an'  come  'ome 
together  :  through  the  church-yaird  an'  oover 
the  'ills,  wi'  on'y  the  moon  to  see.  An*  we 
'eer  the  nightjar  whirrin',  an*  we  smell  the 
medda-tufties.    An'  we  be  sweet-'airts  then. 

"  So  in  course  o'  toime  moi  mother  come  to 
know.  An'  mother  see  the  vicar,  an'  the 
vicar  spoke  to  'im,  an*  we  was  married.  Moi 
buy  weer  born  in  wedlock.  He  weer  born  o* 
a  May-Day ;  so  that  the  cuckoo  be  his  bird. 

"  An'  all  weer  'appy  for  a  month  or  two, 
'cept  for  'im  being  tankerous  about  the  wood- 
turning.  An'  me,  bein'  a  wisp  of  a  maiden, 
wi'  a  maiden's  mumpses,  though  the  mother 
of  a  buy,  must  drive  'im  selly  wi'  moi  talk  o' 
baby,  an*  moi  garden,  an'  the  pigeons  what 
moi  uncle  give  me,  an'  settin'  in  the  woods 
o'  noight. 

"  There's  never  a  wummun  in  these  pairts 
will  so  much  as  crorst  the  shadder  of  a  wood 
after  sunclose.    But  moi  father,  as  run  away 


40  Cottage  Pie 

before  I  come,  he  weer  an  Oirish  sailor-man, 
an'  there  be  gipsy  blood  in  Oirland,  people 
say  ;  an'  so  oi  loves  the  moon,  as  lays  a  grave- 
sheet  oover  thengs,  an'  the  sweaty,  dark 
woods,  as  make  you  fritted,  an*  the  stars,  as 
spoi  upon  yew  from  the  cracks  above. 

"  So  when  moi  man  went  out  o'  noights, 
oi  would  go  into  the  wood  behoind  our 
cottage  here  whoilst  he  come  back.  Some- 
times I  would  walk  roight  through  them,  an* 
come  out  to  a  hole  in  the  boughs,  which 
fowks  have  nicknamed  *  The  Edge  o'  the 
World,'  an'  there  oi  would  sit  an'  look  down 
at  the  fields  in  the  valley  below,  and  think 
about  moi  man,  an'  the  le*l  baby,  an*  the 
sailors  at  sea,  an'  the  owls  in  their  nasts,  an' 
moi  father,  as  weer  an  Oirishman,  an'  run 
away  afore  oi  come. 

**  Then  when  he  come  to  know  what  oi*d 
been  after  he  would  be  tankerous  an'  sweer 
at  me.  An'  though  oi  hed  the  sense  to  see  as 
oi  had  oughter  drop  it,  oi  didn't  somehow 
seem  to  hev  the  nature.  An*  when  the 
First  o'  May  come  round  again,  oi  took  my 
le'l  baby,  as  weer  one  year  oold,  an'  oi  popped 
'im  in  a  shawl,  an'  took  'im  to  the  moonloight 
at  our  cottage  door  to  count  the  apple- 
blossoms  on  our  wall-tree,  odd  or  even,  for 


The  FooVs  Garden  41 

'is  fortune.  An'  moi  man  came  'ome,  an' 
cuffed  me  for  a  fool. 

"  That  weer  when  the  wroitin'  toimes  'ad 
started.  'E  showed  some  wroitin'  to  the  vicar, 
what  'e  hed  done  :  an'  the  vicar  marvelled. 
An'  'e  wrote  to  some  genelmen  in  Lunnon, 
an*  they  sent  a  sovereign  to  moi  man,  an' 
printed  what  he  wrote.  An'  Mr.  Bellingham, 
of  the  *  Observer '  at  Petterling,  he  give  moi 
man  a  pund  a  week  to  roide  round  in  a  pony- 
trap  an'  wroite  things  reg'lar.  An'  fowks 
begun  to  talk  about  him,  an'  once  or  twice 
*e  come  'ome  drunk,  which  was  a  easy  thing 
with  him  on  account  of  the  weakness  in  his 
leg. 

"  Then  the  genelmen  from  Lunnon,  they 
send  him  mower  money,  and  he  wroite  more 
powems.  An'  gentlefolk  begins  for  to  stop 
at  the  cottage  door,  and  airsk  to  speak  with 
him.  And  the  seven  young  ladies  at  the 
vicarage,  they  have  him  up  to  tea. 

"  An'  then  the  vicar,  he  give  him  the  money 
to  go  an'  get  it  all  made  up  into  a  greny- 
covered  bewk,  loike  a  washin'  bewk,  on'y 
slimmer. 

"  The  gentlefowk  begun  to  come  round 
more'n  ever  then.  And  he  bowt  'isself  a 
velvet  jacket. 


42  Cottage  Pie 

*'  An'  then  this  wroitin'-wummun,  what 
had  no  chest  and  a  yaller  face  wi'  spectacles, 
she  come,  an'  took  a  cottage  in  the  village. 
An'  then  he  got  more  sharp  an'  tankerous  than 
ever.  But  the  more  he  carried  on,  the  more 
oi  loved  him,  an'  the  more  oi  loved  they 
woods.     It  weer  nature. 

**  An'  then — an'  then — oi  come  down  one 
noight  from  the  Edge  o'  the  World,  hevin' 
bin  to  look  at  the  valley  beneath,  an'  the 
moon  an'  the  stars,  an'  oi  come  to  moi 
cottage  gate,  yare,  when  'oo  should  oi  foind 
but  Will  Acton,  the  railway  porter  down  to 
Petterling,  an'  'e  tell  me  as  'im  an'  'er  they 
hev  gone  orf  together  in  the  Lunnon  train. 

"  An'  so  I  come  in  to  see  moi  le'l  son.  An* 
'e  was  tankerous  too,  Gard  bless  'im,  be 
reason  o'  the  teethin'. 

*'  An'  theer  was  lean  toimes  afower  us. 
The|  vicar,  as  was  the  cause  of  it  all,  tho' 
Gard  must  be  his  Judge,  he  was  arl  for 
parish  reUef.  But  oi  would  not  make  moiself 
chargeable  for  proide's  sake  an'  for  'is'n — 'e 
'avin'  a  crooked  leg. 

"  Nor  oi  didn't  blame  'im  ;  for  oi  blaimed 
moi  stoopid  self.  Oi  weer  a  foolish  maiden, 
wi'  a  maiden's  mumpses.  An'  he  weer  a 
Powit.     And  oi  could  not  'oold  'is  fancy." 


VI 
POOR    MR.    WELCOME 


Away  down  my  lane,  one  morning,  I  passed 
a  fine  old  man — tall,  stout  and  hearty,  with 
a  blush-rose  complexion.  He  was  dressed  like 
a  labouring  man,  and  he  carried  in  his  hand  a 
worn  but  trusty-looking  coal-hammer.  He 
was  conversing  earnestly  with  Mr.  Banks,  the 
wheelwright ;  he  wore  a  strained  expression, 
and  seemed  to  be  pleading. 

Snatches  of  the  old  fellow's  discourse 
forced  themselves  upon  me  as  I  passed :  **  No 
use  at  'ome.  ...  If  you  can  call  it  'ome. 
.  .  .  No  wife.  .  .  .  No  darter.  .  .  .  On'y 
fourpence.  .  .  .  We  was  brought  up  to- 
gether. .  .  .  Very  hard  to  part.  .  .  .  But 
what's  the  use  ?  .  .  .  No  wife  at  'ome.  .  .  . 
No  'ome,  properly  speaking." 

Mr.  Banks,  the  wheelwright,  was  shaking 
his  head  decisively.  '*  There's  plenty  of  work 
about,"  I  heard  him  say. 

I  passed  on,  leading  my  dogs  and  think- 
ing of  spring  onions — spring  onions  which 
wouldn't  spring,   or   which,   when  sown   as 

43 


44  Cottage  Pie 

onions,  came  up  couch  grass.  I  passed  on 
thus,  in  bitterness,  until  I  came  unto  my 
place  of  residence,  where  I  sat  down  by  the 
place  where  the  Spanish  iris  ought  to  be 
and  told  my  beads.  I  was  disturbed  in  this 
employment  by  a  click  of  the  gate-latch  ; 
and,  looking  up,  I  beheld  my  fine  old  man, 
accompanied  by  his  coal-hammer. 

He  lifted  his  cap  in  a  respectful  manner. 

He  said,  with  a  boyish  smile,  "  Good 
arternoon  to  you,  sir.  I  brought  you  round 
the  good  ole  coal-hammer." 

I  stared  at  the  man.  "  You've  made  a 
mistake,"  I  said  at  last. 

**  No,  sir,  if  you  please,"  replied  the 
stranger.  "  I  was  on  me  road  here,  when 
you  passed,  sir,  along  o'  Master  Duppy  and 
Mister  Don,  sir." 

This  overwhelmingly  respectful  reference 
to  my  two  dogs  naturally  won  me.  I  said 
to  him  :  "  My  good  fellow,  what  is  your 
name  ? " 

"  Mr.  Welcome,  sir,"  he  answered,  raising 
his  cap  in  a  respectful  manner. 

"  Well,  my  man,"  I  said,  "  I  am  sorry  that 
you  should  have  come  so  far  with  the  coal- 
hammer,  for  I  don't  happen  to  be  wanting 
one." 


Poor  Mr.  JVelco^ne  45 

"  Having  lost  me  wife,  sir,"  explained 
Mr.  Welcome,  "  I  have  no  further  use  for 
it." 

I  was  sorry  to  hear  of  his  loss,  but — "  I 
don't  want  a  coal-hammer,"  I  said  again. 

*'  But  you'll  want  this  one,"  urged  Mr. 
Welcome.  "  'Tis  a  very  old  sort.  They 
don't  make  such  coal-hammers  as  this  in 
these  days.  I  would  be  sorry  to  part  with  it. 
We  was  brought  up  together,  this  old  coal- 
hammer  and  me.  But  a  coal-hammer,  that 
don't  be  no  manner  o'  use  to  no  one,  without 
they  got  a  'ome.  And  you  can't  call  it  'ome 
without  a  wife.  I  don't  reckon  to  have  no 
'ome.  I  would  take  a  shilling  for  it.  'Tis  a 
good  hanamer.  The  old-fashioned  sort.  Let 
you  take  it  in  your  hand  and  study  the 
workmanship." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Tenpence  !  "  said  Mr.  Welcome. 

"  Cheer  up  !  "  I  urged.  **  Perhaps  you'll 
find  another  wife ;  a  brisk-looking  man  like 
you." 

**  Ninepence  !  "  said  Mr.  Welcome. 

"  Besides,"  I  pointed  out,  "  even  a  widower 
must  burn  fires." 

"  Eightpence  !  "  said  Mr.  Welcome. 

"  It  isn't  even  kind  to  the  memory  of  your 


46  Cottage  Pie 

poor  wife,"  I  continued,  "  to  break  up  the 
old  home  in  this  fashion." 

"  Sixpence  !  "  said  Mr.  Welcome. 

"  Come,  come,"  I  cried,  *'  be  sensible  !  " 

"  Fourpence  !  "  said  Mr.  Welcome. 

There  is  a  limit  to  my  powers  of  resistance. 
I  can  be  tempted  once  too  often.  I  reflected 
that  my  own  coal-hammer  was  distinctly 
inefficient.  I  said  to  Mr.  Welcome,  "  You 
can  leave  it  there." 

Mr.  Welcome  threw  down  the  coal-hammer 
with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  "  I  couldn't 
abear  to  see  the  sight  of  it  no  longer,"  he 
explained  ;  '*  'anging  up  there  be  the  pore 
ole  dresser,  with  the  plates  all  dusty.  What 
is  'ome  without  you  got  a  wife  to  share  it  ?  " 

I  addressed  some  kindly,  earnest  words  to 
Mr.  Welcome.  I  pointed  out,  in  all  its  forms, 
the  weakness  and  futility  of  his  attitude.  I 
called  him  **  Old  chap,"  and  urged  him  to 
buck  up — to  bite  on  the  bullet,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing. 

Mr.  Welcome  only  sighed  and  shook  his 
head. 

**  There  is  no  'ome  without  a  wife,"  he 
submitted  gloomily. 

"But,"  I  argued  (still  thinking  of  the 
coal-hammer),  "  you  could  at  least  exchange 


Poor  Mr.  Welcome  47 

it  for  something  useful.  What  use  will 
fourpence  be  to  you  ?  " 

**  Times  is  'ard,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Welcome, 
raising  his  cap  in  a  respectful  manner. 

A  great  light  broke  in  upon  me.  He  looked 
so  broad  and  round  and  pink — so  essentially 
prosperous.  It  had  not  for  one  moment 
suggested  itself  to  me  that  this  man  could  be 
hungry.  I  picked  up  the  coal-hammer  and 
pressed  it  into  his  hands.  **  In  that  case," 
I  said,  "  you  must  take  this  back,  and  I 
will " 

"  No,  no ! "  cried  Mr.  Welcome,  inter- 
rupting me.  "  Let  you  kip  it,  sir  ;  let  you 
certainly  kip  it,  sir.  I  cannot  abear  to  look 
at  the  old  thing — me  'aving  no  wife  and  no 
further  use  for  it.  Put  it  away,  sir.  Put  it 
out  o*  me  sight.    I  am  only  asking  fourpence." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  times  are  hard  with  you, 
Mr.  Welcome,"  I  said.  "  It  is  bad  enough  to 
lose  one's  wife  without  having  to  worry  about 
other  things.  Could  you  do  with  some  bread 
and  cheese  ?  " 

Mr.  Welcome  raised  his  cap  in  a  respectful 
manner.  He  sighed  and  shook  his  head. 
"  'Tis  like  this,  sir,"  he  said  ;  "I  don't  seem 
to  have  no  craving  for  food,  not  in  these 
days.     That  don't  give  no  pleasure  to  me 


48  Cottage  Pie 

any  more.  What  is  food  without  you  got  a 
wife  to  share  it  with  you  ?  " 

I  perceived  that  the  poor  fellow  had  worried 
himself  into  a  thoroughly  morbid  state.  I 
perceived  that  here  was  a  case  for  the  helping 
hand.  So,  casting  an  eye  on  the  couch-grass, 
I  spoke  to  him  thus  : 

"  At  any  rate,  Mr.  Welcome,  I  can  find  you 
a  little  work,  and  I  will  speak  to  my  friends 
about  you.  What  do  you  say  to  a  couple  of 
days'  weeding,  to  begin  with,  in  the  garden 
here  ?  " 

**  Thanking  you  kindly,  sir,"  answered 
Mr.  Welcome,  raising  his  cap  in  a  respectful 
manner,  '*  but  I  be  no  manner  o'  use  at  the 
weeding.  I  get  so  sorrowful  at  the  weeding  : 
'tis  so  easy  a  job.  It  set  a  man  thinking.  I 
got  no  use  in  me  back,  neither.  And  nobody 
to  mind  and  docter  it.  What  use  for  a  man 
to  look  for  work  without  'e  got  a  wife  to  kip 
him  strong  and  hearty  ?  " 

*'  Oh,"  I  answered — a  little  shortly — "  as 
you  please." 

**  As  you  please,  sir,"  responded  Mr.  Wel- 
come, enigmatically  but  respectfully,  raising 
his  cap. 

I  turned  to  go  indoors  ;  but  was  detained 
by    an    anxious,    sudden    cough    from    Mr. 


Poor  Mr.  Welcome  49 

Welcome.  **  Begging  your  pardon,  sir : 
thank  you,  sir,"  said  he,  "  but  you  are  for- 
getting the  hammer.  Glad  I  be  to  have  it 
out  of  sight :  though  'tis  a  fine  hammer, 
sir,  if  on'y  a  man  but  had  the  wife  and  'ome 
to  go  with  it.  Fourpence  we  said,  I  fancy, 
sir  ?  " 

I  took  the  hammer  inside  and  searched 
my  pockets  for  coin.  I  looked  in  this  pocket 
and  that  pocket,  and  also  in  all  the  other 
pockets.  I  looked  in  my  tobacco-box.  I 
looked  in  my  writing-desk.  But  I  found  no 
money.  I  found  a  cheque  for  three  pounds 
and  a  postal  order  for  ten  shillings,  neither 
of  which  documents  I  cared  to  bestow  upon 
Mr.  Welcome. 

That  gentleman  raised  his  cap  in  a  respect- 
ful manner  when  I  went  out  to  him.  "  I  am 
sorry  to  find,  Mr.  Welcome,"  I  stated  cheer- 
fully, "  that  I  haven't  fourpence  in  the  house  ; 
but  if  you  will  come  round  to-mor " 

Mr.  Welcome's  hand  came  down  from  his 
cap  with  a  rush.  **  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
"  that  you  call  yeself  a  gentleman  ?  Gimme 
back  my  coal-hammer.  Think  I  want  to 
tramp  down  here  again  to-morrow  for  the 
sake  of  an  illuminated  fourpence  ?  " 

"  But,"   I  stammered,    **  you — you  could 


50  Cottage  Pie 

guess  that  I  would  give  you  something  for 
your  trouble." 

**  Bah  !  "  cried  Mr.  Welcome,  shouldering 
the  hammer ;  "a  man  might  be  in  the 
jungles  of  Africa  for  all  the  chance  there 
be  of  earning  a  drink  in  this  stinkin'  village." 

I  stood  at  the  gate  in  a  kind  of  stupor,  and 
watched  him  take  the  coal-hammer  away. 
He  did  not  once  look  back. 

Shortly  afterwards  I  was  joined  by  my 
Mrs.  Pett,  who  brought  steak  for  my  modest 
dinner,  and  her  little  basket ;  her  little 
green  basket,  which  is  always  with  her ; 
always  in  and  out  of  the  back  door. 

"  Fancy  now,"  cooed  Mrs.  Pett ;  "I  see 
that  pore  old  Mr.  Welcome  as  I  come  along 
the  road." 

"  Why  poor  Mr.  Welcome  ?  "  I  demanded. 

My  Mrs.  Pett  looked  at  me  blankly.  "  Are 
there  no  limits  to  the  ignorance  of  this 
person  ?  "  her  look  seemed  plainly  to  say. 
But  all  that  she  uttered  was  "  Why,  sir  ! 
ain't  you  heerd,  then  ?  He  have  lost  his 
wife." 

**  Oh,"  I  replied,  "  I  have  heard  something 
of  the  sort.    What  did  she  die  of  ?  " 

"  Die  !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Pett.  *'  Why,  bless 
you,  sir,  she  be  'live  as  what  I  am.     She 


Poor  Mr.    IVelco^ne  51 

runned  away  from  him,  the  hussy.  He  ain't 
never  bin  the  same  man  since." 

I  wondered  what  Mr.  Welcome  was  like 
when — when  he  was  a  different  man.  I 
asked  how  long  ago  this  change  of  personality 
had  taken  place. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Mrs.  Pett,  "  before  my  time. 
And  I  bin  settled  in  the  village  near  on 
thirteen  year.    Pore  man  !    He  takes  it  bad." 

"  Poor,  poor  man,"  I  echoed. 

**  Of  course,"  added  Mrs.  Pett,  after  an 
inward  struggle,  "  they  do  say  as  he  used  to 
beat  her.  But  here  they  will  say  anything. 
Pore  man  !  " 


VII 
THE    FOSTER-CHILD 


Mrs.  Gedge,  who  was  lately  the  mother  of 
twin  babies,  but  is  now  the  mother  of  mem- 
ories, had  introduced  a  foster-child  into  her 
home. 

It  was  to  my  mind  an  attractive  foster- 
child,  though  many  of  Mrs.  Gedge' s  neighbours 
denied  it  the  possession,  not  merely  of  good 
looks,  but  even  of  quaint  looks.  This  was 
sheer  malice,  for  though  I  am  open  to  admit 
that  beauty,  being  in  the  eye  of  the  beholder, 
is  a  quality  which  may  be  variously  estimated 
by  various  eyes,  I  do  not  think  that  there  is 
any  excuse  for  people  to  disagree  about  the 
palpably  grotesque — unless,  of  course,  it  can 
be  that  ugliness,  also,  is  in  the  eye  of  the 
beholder,  which  I  doubt,  by  reason  of  the 
absence  of  popular  testimony  to  the  existence 
of  any  such  phenomenon. 

Well,  the  fact  remains  that  Mrs.  Gedge's 
environment  decried  her  foster-child  and 
pronounced  it  ugly  and  "  ugh  "-ish.  To 
them   it   seemed   unnatural,    perverse,    and 

52 


The  Foster-child  53 

even  sinful  that  a  woman  should  cherish  in 
her  bosom  a  little  creature  with  long  ears 
and  bulgy  eyes,  and  a  tail  like  a  powder-puff. 
Mrs.  Gedge  declared  that  the  baby  of  her 
adoption  was  "  so  pratty  a  le'l  rabbit  as  ever 
she  see."  Mrs.  Pett,  with  whom  was  the 
daughter  of  Mrs.  Pett  and  I  your  servant, 
went  further,  and  declared  that  **  Whiskers," 
which  was  the  name  that  Mrs.  Gedge  con- 
ferred upon  her  foster-child,  was  intrinsic- 
ally as  well  as  generically  beautiful.  He  was 
not  merely  a  pretty  rabbit :  he  was  also  a 
pretty  baby.  And  he  possessed  the  virtue  of 
being  dumb. 

She  found  him — on  a  Friday,  sadly  enough 
— in  the  most  tangled,  beautiful,  and  silent 
of  our  lanes.  Mrs.  Gedge,  being  married, 
and  therefore  possessing  no  lover,  had  not, 
according  to  the  local  canons  of  behaviour, 
any  just  excuse  for  walking  in  this  lane  at 
all.  But  she  told  Mrs.  Pett,  who  conveyed 
the  excuse  to  me,  that  she  went  there  to 
gather  blackberries. 

To  my  own  town-nourished  understanding, 
this  was  a  seemly  and  natural  thing  for  a 
woman  to  do :  to  walk  alone  between  the 
autumn  hedgerows.  But  local  opinion  seems 
to    perceive  in  Mrs.  Gedge's   action   either 


54  Cottage  Pie 

simple  insanity  or  simple — wickedness.  As 
for  blackberries,  they,  of  course,  are  quite 
discredited. 

Anyhow,  the  woman's  own  story  is  that 
she  was  gathering  blackberries.  At  one 
particular  point,  the  lane  dips  steeply  down 
and  is  supported  upon  either  side  by  tottering 
cliffs  of  sandstone,  the  slopes  of  which  give 
scanty  nourishment  to  some  few  poor  briars 
and  brambles,  and  the  tops  of  which  are 
crowned  by  quite  a  decent  growth  of  sloes 
and  hazels,  with  fern  stuff  in  between 
them. 

In  this  place  "  Whiskers  "  made  his  debut. 
Some  impulse,  either  of  joy  or  fear,  sent  him 
scurrying  out  of  the  scrub-wood  high  up  a 
bank,  and  thence  to  the  ground  by  means  of 
bounds  and  bumps  and  slithers.  His  un- 
premeditated descent  of  the  sandstone,  ac- 
companied as  it  was  by  a  sort  of  miniature 
landslide,  deprived  him,  or  seemed  to  deprive 
him,  of  reason  and  the  faculty  of  motion.  He 
lay  in  a  muddy  wheel-rut  at  the  foot  of  the 
bank,  so  close  to  Mrs.  Gedge's  heel  that, 
had  she  been  a  man,  she  could  have  stamped 
upon  his  head.  He  did  not  squeak  or  scream, 
as  a  leveret  might  have  done,  but  simply 
lay  there,  breathing  heavily  and  rolling  his 


The  Foster-child  55 

two  big  eyes.  Mrs.  Gedge  stooped  down  and 
lifted  him,  at  which  he  began  to  struggle  with 
great  strength  and  determination.  Being 
thus  assured  that  "  Whiskers' s  "  acrobatic 
feats  had  resulted  in  no  material  damage  to  his 
person,  Mrs.  Gedge  popped  the  little  creature 
into  her  blackberry  basket  and  carried  him 
home. 

"It  be  lonely  for  'er,"  stated  Mrs.'Pett, 
in  extenuation,  "  since  she  lost  'er  two  little 
boys.  A  little  creature  same  as  that  be, 
something  in  the  nature  of  a  little  pet,  that 
would  be  a  decent  little  ploy  for  'er.  Can't 
say  as  I  see  no  'arm  in  it  meself." 

**  Does  anybody  see  any  harm  in  it  ?  "  I 
asked,  with  wonder. 

"  The  neighbours,"  responded  Mrs.  Pett, 
**  they  say  'tis  makin'  a  fool  o'  the  pore  little 
creature.  She've  taught  it  for  to  be  about  the 
kitchen,  you  see,  and  to  f oiler  'er  and  answer 
to  its  name — the  name  o'  *  Whiskers  ' — same 
as  if  it  be  a  ole  Tom  Cat.  And  she've  tied 
a  ribbon  round  it  and  a  bell." 

"  All  seems  rather  harmless,"  I  suggested. 

"Sartinly,"  assented  Mrs.  Pett.  "You 
may  call  it  simple  if  you  like  ;  but  harmless 
— sartinly. 

"  And  then  again,"  pursued  my  Chief  of 


56  Cottage  Pie 

Staff,  "  they  say  'tis  'ard  upon  'er  'usband, 
for  they  say  she  make  'im  look  a  fool." 

"  I  don't  see  why." 

"  !^o  more  don't  I,  not  in  a  reg'lar  manner 
o*  speakin',"  said  Mrs.  Pett ;  "  on'y  Tom 
Gedge,  'e  seem  to  think  the  same  as  'is 
neighbours.  My  little  girl  she  'eerd  'im 
shakin'  of  'er  yisterday.  '  You  dirty  slut,' 
'e  say,  *  be  off  outer  this,  and  take  your 
mangy  rabbit  with  you.  The  kitchen  aren't 
no  place  for  varmin','  'e  say ;  *  take  an' 
drowned  it,'  'e  say,  '  an'  look  more  cheerful, 
and  stop  that  grizzerlin'  afore  I  brings  me 
belt-end  to  you.'  'E  be  a  ignorant,  scattle- 
mouthed  dog,  Tom  Gedge." 

"  What  has  happened  since  ?  "  I  asked. 

**  Naarthun'  aren't  'appened,  in  particular, 
on'y  the  neighbours  they  keep  on  mockin'. 
My  little  gel,  she  say  as  Nancy  keep  pore 
'  Whiskers  '  'id  away  from  Gedge  now.  She 
got  'im  in  the  broken  pig-sty  at  the  fur  end 
o'  the  garden.  A  tidy  bit  o'  garden  that  be, 
and  I  dessay  as  Tom  Gedge,  'e  would  a* 
nosed  pore  *  Whiskers  '  out  'fore  now  if  ever 
the  thought  'd  a-took  'im  for  to  do  a  'arf- 
hour's  diggin'.  But  Tom,  'e  beant  one  for 
spare-time  work — or  any  other  time,  so  long 
as  Nancy's  able. 


The  Foster-child  57 

"  There  be  no  doubt  but  what  she  got  a 
wonderful  talent  for  makin'  friends  wi'  dumb 
animals.  She  'ad  a  magpie  in  the  winter  as 
could  swear  remarkable,  on'y  Tom  an'  'is 
mates  they  shot  at  it  with  their  catapults, 
and  they  'it  the  pore  bird  so  often  that  it  died. 
And  now  my  little  gal  she  say  as  Mrs.  Gedge 
be  teachin'  young  '  Whiskers '  for  to  set  up 
and  beg,  exactly  the  same  as  if  'e  be  a  Chris- 
tian. 

"  My  little  girl  she  see  them  both  among 
the  marigolds  this  mornin*,  arter  Tom  be 
gone  to  do  a  'arf-day's  work.  I  left  my  little 
gal  at  our  front  gate  a-watchin'  out  for  Tom, 
so's  she  be  able  to  warn  pore  Nancy  if  she 
see  'im  turn  the  bend." 

Two  days  later  Mrs.  Pett  brought  further 
and  final  tidings  of  the  foster-child. 

"  I  don't  know  rightly  what  that  bully, 
Tom,  been  up  to,"  she  said  ;  **  but  anybody 
can  see  as  Nancy's  face  ain't  'arf  the  colour 
what  it  ought  to  be.  But  Nancy,  she  won't 
talk  to  nobody — on'y  to  my  little  gal. 

"  And  my  httle  gal  she  say  she  see  them 
both  last  night  aside  the  scullery  wall.  And 
Nancy  got  'er  face  'id  up  wi'  both  'er  'ands, 
and  was  stood  back  agin  the  wall,  and  Tom 
'e  pushed  and  digged  'er  with  'is  knee ;   and 


58  Cottage  Pie 

'e  say  to  'er  :  '  Git  back,  you  dirty  slut.  Git 
back  to  your  supper.  'Tis  rabbit  stew,  I 
tell  you.' 

"  And  this  morning,"  continued  Mrs.  Pett, 
"  I  see  the  neighbours  laughin'.  It  don't 
seem  right  to  me." 


VIII 
MRS.  SAGE'S  DAUGHTER 

My  Mrs.  Pett,  who  heretofore  has  never 
failed  me — my  Mrs.  Pett  of  the  little  green 
basket,  which  poppeth  in  and  poppeth  out 
at  the  back  door — did  not  keep  her  tryst  one 
morning. 

Having,  therefore,  postponed  the  ordeal 
of  the  toilet  to  the  ultimate  moment  com- 
patible with  decency,  I  at  last  accomplished 
it  on  ice-water,  and  then  proceeded  to  the 
lighting  of  fires.    I  was  raking  it  all  out  again 

for  the nth  time  when  somebody  snicked 

the  gate-latch. 

I  flew  to  the  window  on  wings  of  hope, 
and  beheld — the  village  midwife. 

"  Ah  !  "  I  exclaimed,  extruding  my  head 
from  the  window,  "  so  that  is  how  it  is  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,"  admitted  Mrs.  Sage,  '"e 
do  think  as  she  'ave  kep'  at  work  so  close 
to  'er  time  as  'e  dare  let  *er."  '"E,"  I 
knew  instinctively,  to  be  Mrs.  Pett's  physi- 
cian. 

"  Really,"  I  murmured,  "  I  am  awfully — 
59. 


6o  Cottage  Pie 

er — ^sorry.  I  didn't  know — that  is,  I  never 
guessed — er ' ' 

**  Oh,  sir,"  exclaimed  my  visitor,  erecting 
an  exemptory  forefinger — "  oh,  sir,  don't 
mention  it.  Pray  don't  apologise.  Mrs. 
Pett,  she  tell  me  as  you  was  a  single  gentle- 
man." 

Concealing  my  blushes  behind  the  curtain, 
I  ventured  to  address  to  Mrs.  Sage  a  few 
discreet  inquiries. 

"  It  will  be  five  weeks,  first  and  last, 
before  you  git  'er  back  again,"  responded 
Mrs.  Sage. 

I  sighed. 

"  But,"  pursued  my  visitor,  "  I  be  come 
round  special  for  to  tell  you  as  we  can  find  a 
suitable  party  to  carry  you  on  in  the  mean- 
time." 

"  Who  is  the  party  .?  " 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,"  answered 
Mrs.  Sage,  *"tis  me  darter :  not,"  she  added 
hastily,  discerning  signs  of  trepidation  in  my 
gaze,  "  not  the  well-known  one. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Sage,  **  'tis  me  second 
darter,  Kate,  what  I  speak  of.  Mrs.  Pett, 
she  say  to  me,  she  say  :  *  Now  that  would, 
be  nice,'  she  say,  *  if  you  could  anyways 
persuade  your  Kate  to  goo  'long  and  obhge 


Mrs.  Sage's  Daughter  6i 

my  gentleman,  time  as  Fm  laid  up.  Such  a 
quiet,  well-mannered,  handy,  respectable  girl 
your  Kate  be,'  she  say.  *  That  he  a  darter, 
that  one,'  say  she." 

**  How  old  is  Kate  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Well,  sir,"  responded  Mrs.  Sage,  "  she 
look  eighteen." 

"  Yes  ;   but  how  old  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  got  'er  'air  up,"  said  Mrs.  Sage. 

I  tried  again,  in  the  native  idiom  :  "  How 
old  do  you  call  her  ?  " 

"  Not  a  long  way  off  eighteen,"  said  Mrs. 
Sage. 

I  gave  up  the  pursuit  at  this  and  began  to 
reflect — out  loud.  **  After  all,"  I  reflected, 
"  somebody  must  light  the  fires." 

"  You  engage  'er,  then  ?  "  quoth  Mrs.  Sage. 

**  You  can  send  her  round,"  I  said. 

**  She's  engaged,  then  ?  "  repeated  Mrs. 
Sage. 

"  She's  invited  to  come  round  and — I'll 
see,"  said  your  servant. 

"  Oh,"  murmured  Mrs.  Sage.  "  Oh.  .  .  . 
Very  well,  then."  And  the  wise  old  soul 
departed,  thinking  deeply.  I  begged  her  to 
carry  my  congratulations  to  Mr.  Pett. 

"  Poor  man  !  "  said  Mrs.  Sage. 

And  I  found,  in  what  my  Mrs.  Pett  imagines 


62  Cottage  Pie 

vainly  to  be  a  secret  place,  some  methylated 
spirit  and  the  things  belonging  to  her  hair- 
irons.  And  I  poured  a  teacupful  of  water  into 
a  kettle  and  lighted  the  little  spirit-stove, 
and  held  the  kettle  over  it  and  waited  and — 
waited.  I  had  waited  for  nearly  an  hour, 
and  the  kettle  had  nearly  begun  to  sing  when 
— the  gate-latch  clicked  again. 

Again  the  hope  frothed  up  within  my 
bosom  ;  again  it  suddenly  subsided.  For  I 
went  to  the  gate,  and  all  that  I  found  there 
was  an  awkward,  red-nosed  little  girl,  suffering 
badly  from  modesty  and  chilblains. 

I  spoke  to  her  kindly,  but  with  firmness. 
"  You  have  come,"  I  said,  **  to  tell  me  that 
Kate  can't  come." 

"  Ef  you  please,  sir,"  replied  the  little  girl, 
"  I  he  Kate." 

My  head  reeled  so  that  I  had  to  sit  down 
on  the  doorstep. 

**  Please  will  I  do  ?  "  demanded  Kate. 

"  My  God  !  "  quoth  I,  ''  you'll  have  to  do. 
I'm  frost-bitten." 

"  So  then  I  be  engaged  ?  "  asked  Kate, 
with  a  touch  of  the  maternal  spirit. 

I  nodded. 

"  So  then,"  said  Kate,  "  I  kin  let  down  me 
'air  again." 


Mrs.  Sages  Daughter  63 

With  that  I  perceived  that  her  coiffure 
had  been  dressed  up  in  the  adult  manner. 
She  removed  two  hairpins  and  shook  herself, 
and  it  all  came  down. 

**  Mo'er,"  explained  Kate,  "  she  tell  me  as 
I  got  to  kip  it  up  until  I  see  if  you'd  engage 
me."  She  rubbed  one  row  of  chilblains 
against  the  other  row  of  chilblains  and 
snuffled.  I  insisted  on  lending  her  my  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

"  Well,  Katherine,"  I  said,  "  come  along 
in  and  start." 

"  What  I  gotter  do  .?  "  demanded  Kath- 
erine. 

"As  to  that,"  I  answered,  "  you  can't  go 
much  astray  by  trusting  to  the  guidance 
of  your  woman's  instinct." 

"  La  !  "  cried  Kate,  "  and  beant  there 
neer  a  fire  ?  " 

"  Devil  a  spark  !  "  I  replied.  "  And  the 
bed  isn't  made,  and  the  room  isn't  dusted, 
and  all  my  shirts  are  buttonless,  and  I  want 
some  food." 

"  What  you  got  to  eat  ? "  demanded 
Kate. 

"  Boiled  bacon,"  I  replied,  "  but  it  hasn't 
been  boiled  yet." 

**  Ain't  I  better  see  to  that,  then  ?  " 


64  Cottage  Pie 

"  You'll  want  a  fire  to  cook  it  with,  won't 
you  ?  "  I  suggested. 

"  My  mo'er,"  stated  Kate,  with  candour, 
"  she  reckoned  as  the  fire  'd  be  lighted  'fore 
I  got  yere.  'Tis  a  down  fire,  too.  We  aren't 
got  no  down  fires  at  our  'ome.  Do  you  think 
I  can  manage  it  ?  " 

*'  Try,"  I  commanded. 

Kate  did  try  ;  but  the  experiment,  opposed 
as  it  was  by  hair  in  the  eyes  and  snuffles, 
failed  to  achieve  success.  So  we  soaked  some 
logs  in  paraffin,  and  got  by  way  of  art  that 
which  Nature  had  denied  us.  Katherine 
then  addressed  herself  to  the  more  congenial 
subject  of  bacon. 

"  Be  I  supposen,"  she  demanded,  "  to  peel 
off  the  skin,  or  be  I  supposen  to  leave  it 
bide  ?  " 

"  You  leave  it  bide,"  I  answered,  "  until 
the  bacon  has  quite  done  boiling.  They  say 
it  comes  off  easier  then." 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  admitted  Kath- 
erine, nodding  wisely.  "  Where' 11  I  find 
your  stew-pot  ?  " 

We  found  the  pot,  and  Katherine  com- 
pleted, after  a  fashion  quite  original,  the 
preliminary  toilet  of  the  bacon.  While  the 
pot  was  simmering,  her  busy  hands  found 


Mrs.  Sages  Daughter  65 

work  to  do  in  my  bed-chamber.  There  she 
encountered  her  first  set-back  ;  for,  having 
(naturally  enough)  induced  the  ewer  to  stand 
up  on  the  bed,  it  toppled  over  and  soused 
the  bed-clothes  and  broke  itself. 

"  There,  now  !  "  cried  Kate ;  "  if  that 
beant  aggrivating  !  I'm  sorry."  The  snuffles 
became  so  loud — and  long — that  I  begged 
her  to  keep  the  handkerchief  and  make  a 
habit  of  it. 

"There,  now!"  repeated  Katherine  sud- 
denly, "  ef  that  beant  aggrivating  !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter  this  time  ?  "  I 
inquired. 

"  I  dursn't  'ardly  tell  you,"  answered 
Katherine,  snuffling  horribly;  "  on'y  some'ow 
— 'tis  rare  wonderful  'ow  ever  I  done  it — 
some'ow  I  got  the  par'fin  mixed  up  'long  o' 
the  bacon." 

We  sat  down  upon  widely  separated  chairs 
and  regarded  one  another.  At  last  I  found 
my  voice.  "  Lend  me  my  pocket-hand- 
kerchief for  a  minute,"  I  said,  "  and  we'll 
try  to  think  what  can  be  done." 

**  Ef  you   got   any   cow-cow "    began 

Kate  ;  but  I  quelled  her  with  a  snarl  of  rage. 

The  snuffles  began  again,  exhibiting  un- 
precedented vigour. 


66  Cottage  Pie 

"  Mo'er,"  said  Kate,  protruding  her  under- 
lip,  **  had  oughter  sent  you  me  big  sister,  not 
a  young  girl  like  me.  On'y  me  sister,  you 
can't  trust  'er  with  the  men.  ..." 

Kate  got  up  from  her  chair,  still  snuffling, 
and  fumbled  patiently  in  a  nether  pocket. 
Then  she  came  towards  me,  holding  out  an 
exiguous  package. 

"  N-never  m-mind  !  "  she  said.  "  'Ave  a 
acid-drop." 


IX 

CUCKOO 


One  sunny  afternoon  in  November,  having 
a  great  deal  of  work  to  do,  I  thought  that  I 
would  refrain  from  doing  it.  I  thought  I 
would  give  the  dogs  an  airing,  and  find  out 
how  far  November  could  really  go  in  her  ambi- 
tion to  be  mistaken  for  May.  I  observed  that 
two  daffodils  in  an  open  border  had  been 
deceived  into  putting  forth  buds  ;  that  a  lilac 
had  broken  out  into  little  frills  of  leaf ;  that 
out  in  the  lane  the  palm  had  almost  got  into 
its  Easter  suit.  "  We  shall  pay  for  this  later," 
says  we  to  ourselves,  gravely  and  wisely  in  the 
local  manner.  And  then,  with  a  crack  of  the 
dog-whip,  which  frightened  nobody  except 
some  crows  two  fields  away,  we  trotted  off, 
and  did  not  stop  trotting  until  our  breath 
gave  out,  when  we  captured  a  stile  and  rested. 
We  captured  the  stile  by  Goddard's  Piece, 
and  there  we  sat  and  puffed  and  blew,  and 
watched  the  busy  world  go  by. 

It  was  indeed  a  busy  world,  as  busyness  is 
reckoned  here.    Six  people  passed  us.    And 

67 


68  Cottage  Pie 

the  first  of  them  was  Mr.  BHck,  our  rate- 
collector. 

*'  Marnin'  to  you,  sir,'*  said  Mr.  Blick. 
**  You  aren't  got  ne'er  a  light,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

I  handed  to  the  rate-collector  not  only  a  box 
of  matches,  but  my  tobacco-pouch  as  well. 
Greater  love  hath  no  man. 

"  'Tis  wonderful  weather  we  be  havin'," 
observed  Mr.  Blick,  with  a  flourish  of  thanks. 
"  That  seem  a' most  a  shame  to  go  out  collect- 
in'  sich  weather  as  this  :  sich  proper  garden- 
in'  weather.  When  may  I  look  to  you  for  that 
little  matter  o'  one-pun-eight  ?  " 

"  Thanks  for  the  reminder,"  I  said.  "  I 
must  take  a  walk  your  way  one  morning  and 
settle  up." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Mr.  Blick.  "  Don't 
come  a  Thursday,  nor  yet  Sarturday." 

"  I  won't,"  quoth  I. 

"  Because  I  goo  to  market  them  days," 
continued  Mr.  Blick.  "  Nor  don't  come 
Wednesday  arternoon " 

"  Certainly  not !  "  I  cried. 

"  Because  I  goos  to  chapel  Wednesday 
arternoons,"  explained  the  rate  -  collector. 
"  But  Monday,  Tuesday,  and  Friday,  or 
Wednesday  marnin'  anybody  be  sure  to  find 
me  atome  if  they  pass  by." 


Cuckoo  69 

"  I  will  make  a  careful  note  of  the  days,  and 
arrange  my  movements  accordingly,"  I  said. 

"  That's  right,"  repeated  Mr.  Blick.  "  Won- 
derful weather :  so  spring-like.  One-pun- 
eight.    Good  day  to  yow,  sir." 

Mr.  Blick  moved  on,  but  he  had  proceeded 
scarcely  a  yard  when  he  suddenly  stopped 
and  threw  up  his  nose,  like  an  old  fox  scenting 
the  wind.  **  I  could  swear  I  'ear  the  cuckoo 
jest  that  minute,"  said  Mr.  Blick.  "  Per'aps  it 
weer  on'y  some  fool  'ollerin.  This  one-pun- 
eight,  that  only  takes  you  to  December 
quarter.  There'll  be  another  lot  due  direckly. 
You  be  got  a  trifle  backard  in  your  payments. 
I  mention  it  so's  we  shan't  'ave  no  misunder- 
standin's.  'Tis  one-pun-eight  for  the  'arf-year 
endin'  Christmas.  Theer  'e  goo  again ! 
Begod,  that  sound  uncommon  like  the 
cuckoo." 

This  time  Mr.  Blick  did  really  move  ;  and 
I  watched  his  shabby  coat-tails  catch  the 
breeze  as  he  hurried  round  the  bend  in  search 
of  cuckoos  or  a  ratepayer. 

The  next  busy  worldling  to  appear  was 
Mrs.  Winch,  of  Polecat  Farm. 

"  Good  marnin'  to  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Winch.  "  Bean't  you  gone  to  the  asylum, 
then  ?  " 


70  Cottage  Pie 

I  gazed  at  the  woman  with  an  icy  gaze. 

"  I  mean  to  the  openin'  of  the  noo  water- 
works," she  added.  "  All  the  idle  folk  be  gone 
to  the  asylum  'smornin'.  They  got  the 
Gen'ral  and  Sir  William  and  Squire  Dukes  and 
a  band  and  a  parade  o'  the  lunatics  and  what 
not.  'Tis  a  grand  set-out,  from  all  I  'ear. 
That  surprise  jne  you  bean't  gone  there.  It's 
a  thing  that  anybody  didn't  ought er  miss,  so 
long's  they  got  nothin'  else  to  do  on'y  set  on  a 
stile  and  look  innercent." 

"  Not  going  there  yourself,  then,  Mrs. 
Winch  ?  "  I  hazarded. 

"  Not  me,"  responded  that  lady  in  a  crisp 
voice.  "  'Tain't  everybody  aren't  got  nothin* 
else  to  do  only  set  on  stiles  or  goo  to  the 
asylmn.  I  got  my  customers  to  'tend  to  or 
else  where  be  I  when  it  come  to  quarter-day  ?  " 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Winch  tied  up  her  butter- 
cloth  a  little  tighter  and  bustled  off.  I 
watched  her  to  the  bend,  where,  suddenly, 
she  stopped  and  looked  about  her  with  a 
puzzled  air.  Then  flinging  me  a  backward 
glance,  she  uttered  a  final  gibe  : 

"  Sit  theer  long  enough,"  she  said,  "  and 
you'll  'ear  the  cuckoo,  shouldn't  wonder." 

**  The  vulgar  mind  appears  to  be  obsessed 
with  cuckoos  this  morning,"  thought  I  to  my- 


Cuckoo  71 

self ;  and  at  that  moment  the  pipe  fell  out  of 
my  mouth  :  for  from  out  of  the  coppice  which 
crowned  the  sloping  pastures  that  lay  before 
my  gaze  there  issued,  full  and  clear,  the  verit- 
able call  of  the  cuckoo. 

I  had  hardly  got  my  teeth  together  again 
when  another  worldling  came  along.  This 
was  young  Mr.  Smith  from  The  Hall :  Mr. 
Ivor  Smith,  I  think;  or  was  it  Mr.  Cosmo 
Smith  or  Mr.  Derek  Smith  ?  I  really  wasn't 
certain.    They  all  wear  dove-grey  motor  caps. 

"  Cheer  Oh!  "  said  Mr.  Smith. 

"  Cheer  Oh  !  "  I  responded. 

"  By  Gad !  "  cried  Mr.  Smith,  "  you  are  a 
lucky  rotter.  You  never  seem  to  have  any- 
thing in  particular  to  do.  And  that's  a  ripping 
dog  of  yours.  Think  yourself  jolly  lucky  not 
to  be  a  poor  devil  like  me  with  a  beastly  tutor 
nosin'  after  him  every  blessed  step  he  takes. 
Goin'  to  this  do  at  the  asylum  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  said  ;   "  are  you  ?  " 

"  No  jolly  fear,"  responded  Mr.  Smith. 
"  The  pater's  had  to  go,  and  he's  taken  my 
tutor  with  him.  I've  done  a  guy.  I'm  goin* 
to  meet  a  bookmaker  chap  at  Blowfield.  Come 
along  too.    We  can  have  a  game  of  pills." 

I  shook  my  head.  "  I'm  listening  to  the 
cuckoo,"  I  said. 


72  Cottage  Pie 

"  Oh  !  *'  said  Mr.  Smith,  without  wonder. 
He  is  the  sort  of  country  gentleman  to  whom 
the  cuckoo  in  November  presents  no  problem. 
"  I  suppose  you  can  afford  to  waste  an  after- 
noon :  I  jolly  well  can't.  It  isn't  often  I  can 
shake  that  beastly  tutor  off.  I  must  shove  on. 
Pip-pip  !  " 

"  Pip-pip  !  "  I  responded. 

Mr.  Smith  had  barely  remounted  his  bicycle 
when  a  steaming  stranger  in  a  blue  uniform 
appeared  before  me.  "  I — I — sp-pose,"  he 
spluttered,  missing  badly,  as  the  motorists 
say,  **  I  sp-pose  you  ain't  seed  ne'er  a 
stranger  pass  this  way — a  wild-looking  young 
bloke  in — ^in  a  grey  woollen  j -jacket  wi' 
brass  buttons  ?  " 

"No,"  I  said;  "but  I  have  heard  the 
cuckoo.  Stop  and  rest  a  minute  and  you  will 
hear  him  too.    There!" 

"  I  'ear  the  bleater  all  right,"  replied  the 
agitated  stranger ;  "  on'y  I  aren't  got  the 
time  to  stand  about  and  listen  to  no  blase 
birds.  I'm  from  the  asylum,  and  one  of  our 
inmates  'as  took  'isself  off  while  these  yere 
festivities  was  on.  That's  the  worst  of  givin' 
the  beggars  any  pleasure." 

"  There  he  is  !  "  I  said. 

"  Where  ?  "  cried  the  man  in  uniform. 


Cuckoo  73 

"  Over  there — the  cuckoo,  I  mean." 

"  Oh,  bother  the  cuckoo  !  "  exclaimed  the 
man.  "  I  can't  stop  !  "  And  he  was  off  and 
round  the  bend  before  the  sagacious  bird  had 
time  to  mock  him. 

And  then,  as  I  Hghted  that  which  I  said  should 
be  my  final  pipe,  old  Dan'l  Pearce  appeared, 
and  with  him  young  Thomas  Gupp.  They 
were  running  breast  by  breast — running  hard. 

"  What's  up  ?  "  I  cried. 

*'  It's  a  loony  got  loose  out  o'  the  asylum," 
called  back  old  Dan'l,  slackening  down  for  a 
moment.  "  There's  five  bob  for  the  bloke 
what  first  spies  him." 

"  But  have  you  heard  the  cuckoo  ?  "  I 
rejoined. 

Mr.  Pearce  did  not  reply.  "  Bustle  up, 
young  Thomas  :  keep  moving,"  he  said  to  his 
companion. 

I  smoked  that  last  pipe  out  up  on  the  stile, 
and  lit  another.  And  nobody  came  by.  I  saw 
the  slow  smoke  rising  from  some  fire  behind 
the  cuckoo's  wood.  I  saw  the  sun  swing 
round  and  wink  upon  the  cuckoo's  wood,  and 
ever  and  anon  the  cuckoo  himself  spoke  up 
and  gave  the  sun  a  call. 

But  the  intervals  of  silence  between  the 
cuckoo's  song  grew  gradually  longer,  until  at 


74  Cottage  Pie 

last  there  came  an  interval  so  long  that  I  gave 
the  cuckoo  up.  I  thought  he  had  flown  off  to 
coax  the  sun  to  some  more  western  wood. 
"  If  he  has  gone,"  I  thought,  "  there  is  no 
point  in  getting  any  stiff er."  So  I  slipped  off 
the  stile  and  was  knocking  my  pipe  against 
my  boot-heel  when — "  Cuckoo  !  "  There  he 
was,  right  at  my  elbow. 

As  I  looked  and  wondered,  the  hedgerow 
opposite  began  suddenly  to  crackle,  and 
through  the  brambles  crept  a  boy  :  a  freckled, 
moon-faced  boy.  He  was  wearing  a  queer, 
grey  suit. 

He  tore  himself  clear  of  the  brambles  and 
came  out  into  the  lane.  I  saw  that  he  held  in 
his  hand  a  couple  of  dry  reeds,  one  short,  one 
long.  These  he  had  tied  together  with  a  strip 
of  cloth  ;  and  he  stood  in  the  lane  to  adjust 
this  bandage  with  peculiar  tenderness.  Every 
now  and  then  he  would  leave  his  task  to  dance 
a  few  quick  steps  in  the  sunshine  and  to 
whistle  gaily  in  imitation  of  a  blackbird. 
Then  he  put  his  mouth  to  the  reeds  and — 
his  eyes  found  mine.  He  took  the  reeds  from 
his  mouth  and  looked  at  me  sheepishly,  but 
with  a  grin. 

"Hello!"  I  cried.  "So  you're  the 
lunatic  ?  " 


Cuckoo  75 

"  That's  right,  guv'nor,"  he  replied,  quite 
gravely,  and  put  the  reeds  up  to  his  mouth 
again  and  blew : 
"  Cuckoo  !     Cuckoo  !     Cuckoo  !  " 
And  so  he  went  hopping  round  the  bend. 


X 

JACK   O'   CLUBS 


I  FIRST  found  Jack  o'  Clubs  in  a  drain. 

His  private  name,  I  understand,  is  Mr. 
Pontefract.  But  his  convives  and  critics 
call  him  "  Jack  o'  Clubs." 

The  drain  belonged  to  my  neighbour,  an 
irreproachable  schoolmistress.  This  lady,  on 
an  autumn  evening,  addressed  me  thus : 
"  Oh,  dear,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  We  are 
in  such  a  way !  Would  you  get  a  stick  and 
could  you  take  it  up  the  meadow  ?  The  girls 
were  just  going  out  to  send  off  some  little 
fireworks  before  their  tea  :  but  they  all  came 
back  so  frightened.  They  declare  there  are 
men  in  the  meadow." 

Did  I  hesitate  ?  No  !  Amid  the  cheers  of  a 
complete  and  undivided  girls'  school,  your  ser- 
vant seized  a  pitchfork  and  sallied  forth  into 
the  twi-fog  to  reason  with  these  unknowns. 

For  a  long  while  nothing  happened  because, 
once  beyond  the  range  of  all  those  sparkling 
eyes,  I  ceased  to  hasten.  But  the  slowest 
walk  is  bound  to  lead  you  somewhere  in  the 

76 


Jack  d  Clubs  77 

course  of  nature  :  and  mine  brought  me, 
ultimately,  to  the  top  of  the  meadow  :  and 
there,  creeping  softly,  I  did  indeed  behold  a 
man  :  or  rather  the  trunk  and  legs  of  a  man, 
which  extruded  themselves  from  the  orifice  of 
a  land-drain.  The  trunk  I  examined  with  my 
pitchfork,  and  the  complete  animal  said 
*'  Ow  !  "  and  came  out  of  the  drain. 

The  man  stood  up,  and  I  beheld  him.  He 
was  six  foot  long  and  very  aquiline.  He  had 
a  Roman  nose  and  amber-coloured  whiskers. 
He  looked  exactly  like  that  impossible  type 
of  Briton  who  figures  in  French  and  Italian 
political  cartoons.  He  was  dressed  in  madly 
checked  trousers  and  a  long  cut-away  coat, 
and  on  his  head  he  wore  a  little  brown  hat  of 
the  bowler  pattern.    He  was  not  clean. 

I  said  to  him  :    "  What "  and  would 

have  amplified  and  decorated  the  inquiry  ; 
but  I  was  lost  in  admiration  of  his  exquisite 
manners.  He  had  the  most  respectful  and 
effective  smirk  that  I  have  ever  looked  upon. 
He  stood  before  me  with  his  feet  together,  his 
eyes  cast  down,  and  his  neck  cricked  gently 
forward,  whilst  he  repeatedly  touched  his  hat. 
And  he  spoke  : 

"  Good  evenin*,  sir.  Cold  night,  sir.  Can 
I  sell  you  a  little  teapot,  sir  ?  " 


78  Cottage  Pie 

"  What  next  ?  '*  I  cried. 

*'  Ton  me  word,  'tis  a  little  beauty,  sir.  A 
rare  little  beauty,  sir.    'Tis,  'pon  me  word,  sir. 

I  ain't  got  it  here  ;  but "    He  stated  these 

facts  in  a  harsh,  croaking  voice  :  but  with  a 
touch  of  feeling  and  conviction.  And  he  never 
forgot  to  keep  on  touching  his  hat. 

"  Look  here,"  I  said,  interrupting  the 
monologue,  "  this  is  not  a  moment  for  selling 
teapots.  I  came  up  here  to  see  what  you  were 
up  to.    What  the  devil  are  you  up  to  ?  " 

"  'Pon  me  word,  sir,"  responded  the 
stranger,  drawing  closer  to  the  mouth  of  the 
drain,  **  I  was  looking  up  the  pipe,  sir  ;  that's 
all,  sir  ;  'pon  me  word,  sir.  I'm  on'y  'ere  to 
speak  the  truth,  sir.  I  was  walkin'  'ome  along 
the  other  medder,  sir,  and  I  see  this  bit  of 
fencin'  broken  down,  sir,  and  I  come  along 
into  this  medder  to  try  and  put  it  up,  sir,  and 
I  see  this  drain,  sir,  and  the  fancy  took  me  to 
look  inside  it,  sir,  and  then  you  come,  sir,  and 
that's  all,  sir,  'pon  me  word,  sir  ;  may  I  never 
move  again,  sir !  Could  I  sell  you  the  little 
old  teapot,  sir  ?  " 

"  What  did  you  expect  to  see  in  the  drain  ?  " 
I  coldly  inquired. 

**  Pair  of  brass  anderirons  any  good  to  you, 
sir  ?  "    responded  the   stranger.     "  I   know 


Jack  o'  Clubs  79 

where  there's  a  very  'andsome  pair,  sir.  Ton 
me  word,  they're  beauties.  The  genelman 
would  take  ten  shilHn's  for  'em,  sir." 

I  wanted  to  terminate  this  interview.  It 
was  raw  and  cold  up  there  in  the  unsheltered 
meadow.  I  therefore  pointed  a  commanding 
finger  at  the  horizon  and  ordered  the  stranger 
to  be  oif.     "  Don't  let  me  ever  catch  you 

here  again,"   I  said,  "  or "      I   left   the 

details  of  this  alternative  to  the  stranger's 
obviously  fertile  imagination.  "  You've  given 
Miss  Smee's  young  ladies  an  awful  fright,"  I 
added. 

"  I  wouldn't  'arm  the  prutty  le'l  dears,  'pon 
me  word  I  wouldn't,"  replied  the  stranger. 
"I'm  the  father  of  females  meself,  'pon  me 
word  I  am,  sir." 

"  Now  go,"  I  said  ;  "  and  don't  come  back 
again." 

"  No,  sir :  certainly  not,  sir :  'pon  me 
word,  I  won't,  sir  :  thank  you  very  much, 
sir."  The  stranger  tapped  his  hat  more 
frequently  than  ever.  I  turned  to  walk  away  ; 
but,  on  a  sudden  impulse,  turned  back  again, 
and  was  in  time  to  see  the  stranger  produce 
from,  the  field-drain  a  long,  yellow  animal, 
which  he  slipped  into  one  of  his  fourteen 
pockets.    He  saw  that  I  saw  :  but  all  he  did 


8o  Cottage  Pie 

was  to  renew  the  smirk  and  to  resume  the  hat- 
touching,  and  to  inquire,  with  a  more  hopeful 
thrill  than  ever  in  his  croak  :  "  Could  you  do 
with  a  little  old-fashioned  flat-iron,  sir  ?  Ton 
me  word,  'tis  a  wonderful  good  one,  sir.  I 
ain't  got  it  with  me,  but " 

I  did  not  stop  to  hear  the  end  of  this  speech, 
but  left  him  to  emptiness  and  his  conscience. 
I  returned  to  Miss  Smee  and  explained,  with 
modest  brevity,  that  I  had  found  a  fellow 
skulking  up  there  and  had  ousted  him,  with 
appropriate  censure. 

Miss  Smee  took  my  hand  and  thanked 
me.  All  the  young  ladies  took  my  hand  and 
thanked  me.  I  stayed  to  high-tea.  I  helped 
to  send  up  fireworks.  I  helped  the  braver 
(and  least  juvenile)  of  the  young  ladies  to 
hold  the  safety  ends  of  Golden  Rains  and 
Roman  Candles.  Then  I  accepted  further 
thanks  and  returned  to  my  domicile.  And 
there  I  found — the  stranger  ! 

He  was  standing  flat  against  the  gate-post, 
and  I  at  first  believed  him  to  be  the  shadow 
of  a  plum  tree.  But  plum  trees  do  not  touch 
their  hats  and  croak.    The  stranger  said  : 

"  Good  evenin',  sir.  'Tis  very  cold,  sir.  I 
brought  the  Uttle  old-fashioned  teapot,  sir. 
'Tis  a  rare  old-fashioned  little  piece.    'Pon  me 


Jack  0   Clubs  8 1 

word,  'tis  very  old,  sir.  I'll  take  five  shillin* 
for  it,  sir." 

"  You'll  take  yourself  off,"  I  said.  "  What's 
the  use  of  skulking  round  here  at  this  time  of 
night  with  your  damned  teapots  ?  " 

"  'Pon  me  word,  sir,  'tis  a  rare  old-fashioned 
little  piece.  Belonged  me  own  grand- 
mother, sir.  'Tis  a  'undred  years  old,  sir. 
I'll  say  four  shillin',  sir.  'Pon  me  word,  sir, 
'tis  a  bargain." 

"  In  about  two  seconds,"  I  replied,  "  this 
dog  will  cease  to  be  under  control." 

"  Three  shillin's,  sir.  'Pon  me  word  'tis 
giving  it  to  you." 

"  Get  out !  "  I  thundered. 

"  Two  shillin's,"  croaked  the  stranger. 

At  that  I  lost  my  temper  and  released  the 
dog  from  custody.  The  faithful  creature 
forthwith  leapt  upon  the  stranger  and — 
licked  his  boots.  "  'Pon  me  word,  sir," 
said  the  stranger,  "  'tis  bitter  cold.  Will 
you  lend  me  the  two  shillin's  on  me  pedlar's 
licence  ?  ^ 

I  called  my  pampered  brute  to  heel  again 
and  reflected  bitterly  that  he  had  that 
day  been  regaled  upon  four-pennyworth  of 
butcher's  filings.  I  determined  to  stop  it  out 
of  his  fihngs.    And  I  said  to  the  stranger  :  "  If 


82  Cottage  Pie 

you  are  a  pedlar,  permit  me  to  tell  you  that 
you  are  going  the  right  way  to  get  yourself 
reported  to  the  police."  To  which  comment, 
the  stranger  replied  as  follows  : 

"  Ton  me  word,  sir,  'tis  that  bitter  I'll  take 
a  shilling  down." 

To  get  rid  of  him,  I  disgorged  the  shilling, 
taking  the  teapot  (an  excessively  common  one, 
with  a  broken  spout)  in  exchange  :  for  I  felt 
that  as  a  mere  matter  of  duty  to  fellow-citi- 
zens, it  was  incumbent  upon  me  to  disarm  the 
man. 

When  next  morning  my  Mrs.  Pett  arrived, 
accompanied  by  her  little  green  basket,  with- 
out whose  assistance  she  finds  it  impossible  to 
cook  my  breakfast,  I  described  the  stranger 
to  her  and  demanded  his  name.  Mrs.  Pett 
closed  both  eyes  and  thought,  mentally 
examining  the  identification  marks.  "  Salmon- 
coloured  whiskers,  did  you  say  ?  "  she  de- 
manded at  last.  "  Amber,"  I  repeated. 
"  Ah  !"  said  Mrs.  Pett.  "  Amber.  'Tis  nearly 
the  same.  That'll  be  Mr.  Pontefract — Jack  o' 
Clubs,  we  call  him." 

"  Pontefract !  "  I  echoed.  "  Ha— who  is 
Pontefract  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Pontefract  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Pett,  with 
a  shade  of  emphasis  on  the  title.   "  I  dunno 


Jack  d  Clubs  83 

justly  what  he  be.  They  say  he's  none  too 
honest ;  but  I've  alius  found  him  prompt 
enough  in  paying  for  aught  as  he's  bought  of 
me. 

"  What  does  he  buy  from  you,  Mrs.  Pett  ?  " 
I  inquired. 

"  Odds  and  ends,"  replied  that  lady.  "  He 
bought  a  cracked  old  teapot  yesterday.  Give 
me  tuppence.  As  I  say  to  my  little  boy,  it's 
the  price  of  a  pint — of  milk  :  and  the  teapot, 
that  were  no  manner  of  use.  Yes  :  I've  alius 
found  that  Jack  have  acted  very  fair  in  any 
deahngs  which  he've  had  with  me." 

Going  out  presently  into  the  garden  to  bury 
the  teapot,  I  was  not  surprised  to  find  that 
Mr.  Pontefract  awaited  me  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hedge.  As  I  looked  again  upon  his 
grave,  judicial  countenance  and  listened  to 
his  gentle,  apprehensive  cough,  I  thought  how 
natural  it  was  that  my  Mrs.  Pett  should  insist 
upon  the  Mister.  Amber  whiskers  and  cut- 
away coats  are  bom,  as  it  were,  to  be  Mistered. 
Said  Mr.  Pontefract :  "  Would  you  buy  a 
little  old-fashioned  candlestick,  me  gentle- 
man ?  'Pon  me  word,  sir,  'tis  a  remarkable 
old  one." 

I  finished  burying  the  teapot,  and  then  I 
addressed  myself  in  simple,  unaffected  Saxon 


84  Cottage  Pie 

to  Jack  o'  Clubs.  He  did  not  wince.  He 
simply  murmured  "candlestick." 

I  retreated  to  my  homestead  and  closed  the 
door  with  a  bang.  I  sat  at  a  table  and  tried 
to  work  ;  but  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  from 
the  window,  which  framed  a  neat  picture  of 
Mr.  Pontefract,  patiently  leaning  against  a 
willow  tree,  nursing  a  neat  sack.  When  I  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  I  rushed  outside  and 
bought  his  hateful  candlestick. 

''  Ton  me  word,  sir,  'tis  a  bargain,"  was  Mr. 
Pontefract 's  only  comment.  He  inserted  a 
hand  in  the  sack  and  produced  the  candlestick, 
also  a  much  used  pair  of  tongs.  "  This  little 
old-fashioned  pair  of  tongs  any  use  to  you, 
young  gentleman  ? "  he  sweetly  inquired. 
**  They  be  very  old-fashioned,  sir.  Mallered 
iron,  sir.  I'll  take  a  shilling.  'Pon  me  word, 
it's  cheap,  sir." 

I  bought  the  tongs.  And  he  went  away. 
But  late  that  night  I  found  he  had  come  back 
again  with  a  pair  of  fire-dogs.  He  nursed  the 
fire-dogs  all  night,  and  in  the  morning  he  was 
still  there  ;  and — ^judging  his  moment — he 
fainted  all  over  the  willow  tree  just  as  I 
had  cracked  my  first  egg.  I  bought  the  fire- 
dogs. 

I  said  to  Mr.  Pontefract :    "  Why  do  you 


Jack  o   Clubs  85 

pay  me  such  attention  ?  I  only  met  you  by 
accident — ^in  a  drain  !  "    And  he  answered : 

"  Ah,  sir,  but  you've  got  such  a  look  of  the 
gentleman." 

And  to-night  he  has  come  back  again.  He 
says,  "  I've  seen  the  party  about  that  fire- 
back,  sir.  He'll  take  eight  shillin'  for  it,  sir. 
'Pon  me  word,  sir,  'tis  a  wonderful  good  fire- 
back.  'Undred  years  old,  sir.  Mallered  iron, 
sir.  He  say  I  got  to  bring  the  money  before 
he  let  me  have  the  fire-back,  sir.  Will  you  let 
me  have  the  money  ?  'Pon  me  word,  'tis  cruel 
cheap,  sir.  You  can  trust  me  with  the  money, 
sir.  'Pon  me  word  I  wouldn't  deceive  you. 
Dated  1820,  sir." 

For  the  second  time  I  have  closed  my  door 
upon  Jack  o*  Clubs  and  the  night.  But  I  can 
hear  him  breathing  by  the  willow  tree.  To- 
morrow morning  he  will  still  be  there.  He 
will  reproduce  the  fainting  fit.  I  shall  give 
him  the  eight  shillings.  He  will  either  abscond 
with  this  money  or  bring  a  fire-back.  In  the 
meantime,  I  shall  have  felled  his  willow  tree. 

If  in  the  face  of  this  rebuff  he  still  returns, 
I  shall  play  my  trump  card  :  I  shall  move  to 
Lanarkshire. 

I  am  determined  to  get  a  divorce  from  Mr. 
Pontefract. 


XI 

ROSE-IN-HAIR 


It  happened  months  ago.  Or  was  it  years 
ago  ?  Or  did  it  ever  happen  ?  The  straw- 
berries were  ripe  ...  so  long  ago  it  was. 
One  hkes  to  beUeve  that  it  happened,  anyhow. 
I  will  tell  you  about  it. 

You  must  understand  that  I  possess  a  gate 
and  two  tubs.  These — and  a  strawberry  patch 
— are  the  only  properties  essential  to  this  story. 

The  tubs  belong  outside  the  gate.  Mrs. 
Sharman  Crawford  lives  in  one  of  them  and 
M.  Able  Carriere  in  the  other.  And  these  are 
full-lipped  flaming  roses,  both  of  them,  and 
they  are  the  joy  of  my  heart. 

People  had  said  to  me  :  "  You  are  an  idiot 
to  leave  your  roses  loose  outside  your  gate. 
Do  you  expect  to  keep  a  single  blossom  ?  " 

Mr.  Tracey,  who  jobs  for  me,  said  :  "It 
ain't  in  'uman  nature,  sir  !  " 

I  said  to  people  :  "I  will  trust  my  fellow- 
man.  But  ...  no  ;  I  will  trust  my  fellow- 
man." 

And  as  the  June  days  lengthened  (cop5n-ight 
phrase  :  United  Kingdom  and  U.S.A.)  I  had 

86 


Rose-in-Hair  87 

reason  to  congratulate  myself  upon  the  con- 
fidence which  I  had  placed  in  my  fellow-man. 

The  roses  sent  forth  shoots  and  budded  and 
broke.  People — sometimes  so  many  as  four 
in  a  day — came  "  'otchlin'  "  past  the  gate  and 
looked  upon  the  tubs  and  the  roses  and  were 
glad,  and  touched  not,  and  passed  on.  ...  I 
was  proud  of  the  roses,  and  of  myself,  and  of 
my  fellow-man. 

But  one  Sabbath  morning,  as  I  looked  forth 
upon  the  fairway,  and  the  roses,  and  the  tubs, 
a  sudden,  unexpected  agony  of  fear  took  hold 
of  me.  .  .  .  Supposing  that  my  fellow-man 
should  fall  ?  The  roses  had  so  surpassed  them- 
selves this  morning  ;  they  had  reached  the 
moment  of  apotheosis.  Mrs.  Sharman  Craw- 
ford made  me  reel  with  her  splendour,  her 
fragrance.  It  was  as  awful,  almost,  as  .  .  . 
their  fragrance. 

Sundays,  especially  June  Sundays,  bring 
traffic  to  my  lane.  We  get  the  courting  pairs 
and  little  boys  with  catapults.  I  had  tended 
those  roses  for  eleven  months  and  two  weeks. 
When  you  buy  two  portions  of  oil-tub  and 
treat  them  handsomely  to  paint,  and  deck 
them  with  a  Sharman  Crawford  and  an  Able 
Carriere,  and  watch  them  daily,  hourly,  for 
eleven  months  and  two  weeks  in  order  to  be 


88  Cottage  Pie 

proud  and  happy  for  a  fortnight — when,  I  say, 
you  do  all  this — why,  you  like  to  get  your 
fortnight ;  all  of  it. 

So  I  went  indoors  and  found  four  mouse- 
traps ;  four  common,  penny  mouse-traps,  the 
kind  which  work  with  a  spring,  and  these  I 
"  set  "  and  concealed  with  cunning  amidst  the 
foliage  of  my  rose-trees— two  traps  to  each  tree. 

Then  I  got  out  the  lawn-mower  and  pushed 
it  here  and  there  about  the  grass — this  being 
the  Sabbath  Day  and  I  in  want  of  ploy. 

When  you  have  pushed  a  fourteen-inch 
mower  for  second  after  second — in  June — you 
have  to  stop.  /  stopped,  and  had  hardly  put 
it  to  my  lips  when  my  attention  was  arrested 
by  certain  sudden  sounds — a  quick,  sharp 
"  click,"  followed  by  a  little  shriek. 

"  Great  God  !  "  I  reflected  ;  "  somebody 
has  found  a  mouse- trap."  And  calling  my 
largest  dog  to  heel,  I  stalked  round  to  the 
rose-tubs. 

There  I  beheld  the  evil-doer.    A  .  .  .  girl ! 

She  was  examining  with  stupefied  amaze- 
ment her  little  finger — such  a  little,  little 
finger — which  was  held  fast  in  the  not  very 
powerful  jaws  of  the  mouse-trap.  I  perceived 
that  the  fairest  and  most  fragrant  of  my 
Sharman   Crawfords   had   become   detached 


Rose-in-Hair  89 

from  its  stem  and  now  figured  rather  gaily 
amid  her  hair — which  was  dark  and  thick. 
I  perceived  that  her  complexion  was  good : 
a  clean,  transparent  russet.  She  had  white 
teeth  and  her  eyes  were  not  quite  even.  I 
have  noticed  that  many  pretty  girls  exhibit 
that  curious,  fascinating  trick  of  the  eyes.  It 
would  be  beastly  and  unfair  to  call  it  a  squint. 

I  said  to  her,  "  Allow  me  !  "  and  rushed  at 
the  mouse-trap.  She  looked  up  as  I  spoke  and 
drew  back  a  step. 

"  Be  you  the  Boss  ?  "  she  said. 

I  nodded,  and  taking  her  hand  released  the 
little  finger. 

"  *Tis  yere  own  fault,  then,"  said  the  girl. 
"  You  didn't  oughter  tempt  folk.  Ain't  it  a 
beauty  ?  "  she  added,  touching  the  rose  in  her 
hair. 

"  Aren't  you  a  beauty  ?  "  I  thought ;  but 
refrained  from  uttering  the  obvious.  Instead,  I 
plucked  a  few  more  roses— six,  perhaps ;  maybe 
a  dozen— and— "  Be  they  for  me?''  said  the  girl. 

I  explained  that  I  was  sorry  about  her 
finger.    She  laughed  at  me. 

"  Why,"  said  the  girl,  "  it  bean't  so  much  as 
swelled.  Look."  She  held  the  little  little- 
finger  out. 

I  looked. 


90  Cottage  Pie 

"  You  aren't  got  ne'er  a  stretch  o'  string,  I 
suppose  ? "  demanded  Rose-in-Hair,  then. 
"  'Twould  be  shameful  if  I  dropped  some." 

I  found  the  string  and  Rose-in-Hair  un- 
knotted it  with  her  strong  white  teeth. 
"  Catch  on  to  the  blooms  a  minute,  will 
you  ?  "  she  commanded.    I  caught  on. 

Rose-in-Hair  sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  the 
nearest  tub  and  spread  out  her  skirts.  I  sat 
down  upon  the  edge  of  the  other  tub  and 
watched  her. 

"  You  kin  gimme  back  the  blooms  now," 
she  said. 

Rose-in-Hair  had  evidently  an  exact  and 
particular  taste  in  respect  to  nosegays.  She 
arranged  and  disarranged  and  rearranged 
those  roses  quite  a  dozen  times  while  I  .  .  . 
just  watched  her.  After  the  twelfth  attempt, 
she  seemed  a  little  weary  ;  dropped  them  back 
into  her  lap  again  with  a  petulant  gesture,  and 
stretched  up  her  arms  and  yawned — without 
apology  or  concealment.  Then,  looking  at  me 
lazily  from  under  her  straight  black  brows  and 
looking  up  the  road  and  down  the  road,  Rose- 
in-Hair  said  coyly  : 

"  Is  that  fag  an  orph'n  ?  " 

"  Dear  me,  n-no,"  I  stammered,  hastily 
producing  a  easeful  of  duplicates. 


Rose-in-Hair  91 

"  Can  I  take  two  ?  "  said  Rose-in-Hair. 
*'  Don't  often  get  a  chance  at  this.  .  .  . 
They're  strict  at  home.  I'll  show  you  'ow  to 
make  the  smoke  go  corkscrew,  same  as  my 
brother  taught  me." 

I  watched  this  performance  with  interest 
and  duly  applauded  its  originality.  Rose-in- 
Hair  picked  up  her  flowers  again  and  began  to 
reassemble  them,  but  pricked  her  finger  and 
threw  them  down,  with  an  exclamation  which 
is  often  employed  by  EngHsh  people.  "  'Ere," 
said  Rose-in-Hair,  then,  "  can't  you  'elp  me 
with  these  silly  blooms  ?  " 

I  naturally  could  not  refuse. 

"  Perhaps,"  I  suggested,  "  if  you  would 
allow  me  to  sit  down  on  the  tub — ah — beside 
you — ah " 

Rose-in-Hair  looked  up  the  lane,  and  Rose- 
in-Hair  looked  down  the  lane,  and  Rose-in- 
Hair  looked  at  me  more  lazily  than  ever,  and 
said  ..."  M',  yes  !  " 

So  I  got  up  from  my  tub  and  assisted  Rose- 
in-Hair  to  tie  up  her  flowers. 

I  was  thus  occupied — Rose-in-Hair  pro- 
testing somewhat  at  my  method,  which 
crushed  one  of  the  blossoms — when  a  horrible, 
discordant  shout  broke  in  upon  the  stillness 
of  our  rustic  occupation. 


92  Cottage  Pie 

I  looked  up  ;  and  beheld  the  angry  counten- 
ance of  an  agricultural  labourer,  dressed  in 
military  uniform.  It  was  this  gentleman's 
voice  which  had  so  startled  us. 

"  Hi !  Keep  orf  the  grarse  !  "  shouted  the 
stranger. 

Rose-in-Hair  got  up  from  the  tub  with  a 
laugh  and  offered  the  stranger  a  rose.  That 
vocalist  repeated  himself  : 

"  Hi,  young  fellar  ;  keep  orf  the  grarse  !  " 
he  shouted. 

"  Don't  mind  him,"  said  Rose-in-Hair. 
"  That  be  only  my  Perkin.  I  expected  him 
along." 

"  Call  orf  that  bandy  dawg  and  I'll  show  ye 
which  of  us  is  a  man,"  said  Perkin  cordially. 

"  The  dog's  deaf,"  I  replied. 

"  What  you  gotter  say  for  yeself  ?  "  de- 
manded Perkin. 

I  looked  at  Perkin  with  an  unintelligent 
expression. 

Perkin  patiently  explained  his  meaning. 

"  Did  I  see  you,"  he  inquired,  "  with  your 
bandy  arm  round  that  young  lady's  waist  ?  " 

"  You  did,"  I  responded ;  "  and  if  you  had 
postponed  your  arrival  for  two  minutes  you 
would  have  seen  me  get  the  kiss  which  I'd 
asked  for  eight  times." 


Rose-in-Hair  93 

**  Well,"  said  Perkin,  "  what  you  gointer 
do  about  it  ?  " 

**  Give  it  up,  I  suppose,  seeing  that  you've 
had  the  bad  taste  to  appear." 

"  What  I  meantersay,"  explained  Perkin, 
with  characteristic  patience  and  courtesy,  "  is 
this  :  Are  you  gointer  call  orf  that  dog  and  let 
me  'ave  a  goo  at  ye  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied.  "  But  if  you  care  to  step 
into  the  garden  and  join  your  fiancee  and  my- 
self at  tea,  we  shall  be  pleased  to  give  you 
some  strawberries  and  cream." 

"  There,  Perkin  !  "  cried  out  Rose-in-Hair. 
"  Hear  what  the  gentleman  say  ?  Give  him 
yere  hand  and  thank  him." 

Perkin  had  walked  far.  His  mouth  and 
newly  born  moustache  were  dusty.  His  red 
coat  looked  unseasonable.  He  leant  upon  the 
gate-post,  and  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  it, 
and  opened  it  again,  and  then  he  spoke. 

"  That's  a  proper  notion,"  he  said. 

So  I  sat  them  under  the  quince  tree  and 
brought  forth  the  feast. 

The  militia-man's  way  with  strawberries  was 
prompt,  effective,  and  astonishing  to  watch. 
His  pace  was  so  rapid,  however,  that  Rose-in- 
Hair  got  winded.  I  had  to  come  to  Rose-in- 
Hair's  assistance.    But  just  as  I  was  popping 


94  Cottage  Pie 

the  third  one  (such  a  whopper,  too)  between 
her  interesting  lips,  Perkin  chanced  to  look 
up  from  his  plate  and  immediately  revived 
his  war-cry,  with  the  result  that  the  whopper 
got  dropped  and  trodden  on.  Rose-in  Hair, 
however,  rewarded  me  with  a  sad,  kind 
smile. 

When  it  became  perfectly  evident  to  Perkin 
that  he  had  cleared  the  strawberry  bed,  he 
condescended  to  talk. 

"  You  got  a  nice  li'l  place,"  he  said.  I 
assented. 

*'  That  lay  a  bit  low,  mind  you  !  " 

"  Too  low,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Well — a  hit  low,"  persisted  Perkin. 
"  That  lay  the  wrong  side  of  the  'ills,  too. 
Y'oughter  goo  Worthing  way  to  grow  straw- 
berry. They  can  grow  strawberry  at  Worth- 
ing.   Grass  want  cutting,  I  see." 

I  assented,  nodding  towards  the  lawn- 
mower  as  proving  my  independent  cognisance 
of  this  fact. 

"  Tell  you  what,"  cried  Perkin  suddenly — 
"  I'll  mow  ye  the  lot  for  two  bob  !  " 

**  Here  ?    Now  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  To  he  sure,"  assented  Perkin.  "  Won't 
take  me  above  a  hour  to  run  over  the  lot." 

**  Nor  'arf,"  assented  Rose-in-Hair. 


Rose-ifi'Hair  95 

"  Then  go  ahead,"  I  said.  ..."  I  have 
never  been  mown  by  the  miUtary  before." 

"  'Tis  on'y  the  MUitia  /  belongs  to,"  repHed 
Perkin,  with  a  deprecatory  smile.  He  un- 
buttoned his  jolly  red  jacket  and  moistened 
the  palms  of  his  hands. 

"  This  be  a  Mower,  I  see,"  announced 
Perkin,  after  a  preliminary  flutter  round  a 
tree-trunk — "  Now  we're  off." 

And  off  they  were.  I  watched  his  broad, 
red  back  receding  up  the  lawn. 

"  He  can  mow  !  "  said  a  voice  from  beside 
me.  .  .  . 

Rose-in-Hair  then  slipped  her  arm  in  mine. 
"  Beant  you  gointer  pluck  me  neer  another 
bloom  ?  "  she  said. 

Glancing  furtively  along  the  lawn,  I  per- 
ceived, with  a  pang  of  joy,  that  my  ripping 
old  lawn-mower  had  gone  and  ruptured  itself 
again. 

These  mishaps  are  of  absorbing  interest  to 
any  person  possessing  the  mechanical  mind. 
And  they  take  hours  to  repair. 

Rose-in-Hair  touched  my  hand  and — ^held 
it.  We  tripped  to  the  rose- tub  .  .  .  treading 
softly  .  .  .  the  big  dog  following. 

We  plucked  some  rose-buds. 

And  Perkin  mowed  the  lawn. 


XII 

IVY  LEAVES 


It  was  Wednesday,  and  therefore  an  "  off " 
day  at  Preece's  Farm. 

Tuesdays  and  Fridays  are  butter-making 
days  in  our  part  of  the  world.  On  Mondays 
we  wash,  and  on  Thursdays  we  bake.  On 
Saturdays  we  scrub  the  oilcloth  and  rehang 
the  curtains,  and  buy  hairpins  at  Blowfield, 
and  otherwise  prepare  ourselves  for  the  dread- 
ful Sabbath.  Wednesday  is  anybody's  day, 
except  in  the  prime  months  of  the  year,  when 
every  maid  and  housewife  in  the  village  gives 
herself  up  from  two  o'clock  till  tea-time  to  the 
game  of  stool-ball,  which  is  cricket  in  petti- 
coats. 

But  you  cannot  play  stool-ball  in  February. 
You  cannot  do  anything  except  work  hard 
and  dream  about  Easter. 

So  she  came  out  to  the  front  gate,  her 
"  second  "  apron  full  of  Wednesday  crackle, 
and  looked  distastefully  up  the  road. 

I  do  not  know  who  she  was — a  Preece,  no 
doubt.     Jane  Hopkins  Preece,   perhaps,   or 

96 


Ivy  Leaves  97 

Ellen  Martha  Preece,  or,  no  less  conceivably, 
Victoria  Alexandra  Preece.  A  suety  girl  with 
nice  eyes  but  bad  teeth. 

Her  hair  had  evidently  once  set  up  to  be 
golden  ;  but  Nature,  exerting  the  law  of  the 
countryside,  had  adapted  it  to  the  prevailing 
hue  of  the  surroundings — a  sort  of  a  pale  mud 
colour.  Just  where  it  swept  her  forehead — 
and  therefore  lay  in  danger  of  being  fluttered 
by  vain  winds — ^she  had  fashioned  her  hair 
into  a  series  of  small,  tight  knobs,  kept  in 
place  by  narrow  strips  of  lead. 

She  stood  there  scowling  at  the  road,  till, 
suddenly,  the  nice  eyes  opened  wider  and  the 
round  face  slowly  stirred  itself  to  dimples. 
She  had  seen  a  man. 

Victoria  Alexander  Preece — this  I  am  now 
persuaded  was  her  name — had  looked  on  men 
before — upon  all  sorts  of  men,  from  the  heavy- 
footed  males  of  her  own  species  up  to  kid- 
gloved  auctioneers  and  the  lawyers'  clerks  of 
Blowfield,  not  to  mention  the  dapper  young 
person  who  tuned  the  Preece's  Farm  piano. 

Being  thus  guided  by  knowledge  and  ex- 
perience, Victoria  Alexandra  was  perfectly 
definite  in  her  approval  of  this  man.  He  was 
a  stranger.  .  .  .  His  boots  were  shiny.  .  .  . 
His  hair  all  curled.  ...  He  wore  a  hard. 


98  Cottage  Pie 

black  hat.  ...  He  came  from  abroad,  from 
afar.  .  .  .  He  came — oh,  romance  ! — from  the 
TOWN.    Victoria  Alexandra  held  her  breath. 

He  was  short  and  fat,  but  neatly  shaven, 
though  blue.  His  forehead  had  been  marred 
by  an  occurrence  incidental  to  rolling-skating 
or  some  other  manly  sport.  He  had  thick 
lips,  very  new  teeth,  a  black,  Napoleonic  fore- 
lock, and  gold  cuff-links.  He  carried  a  large 
amber  tube  containing  a  fragment  of  cigar. 
He  was  arrayed  in  neat,  striped  trousers,  a 
boxcloth  overcoat  with  velvet  cuffs,  the  hat 
already  mentioned,  a  white  collar,  and  a 
silken  tie.  His  button-hole  was  adorned  by  a 
small  ornament  constructed  of  stamped  tin 
and  affording  a  realistic  counterfeit  of  the 
bronzed  ivy  leaves.    He  used  perfume. 

Victoria  Alexandra  observed  these  evi- 
dences of  refinement  one  by  one,  as  he  ap- 
proached her  step  by  step.  He  came  nearer 
.  .  .  nearer  still  .  .  .  hesitated  .  .  .  stopped 
.  .  .  took  off  his  hat.  Took  it  right  off. 
Victoria  Alexandra  held  on  to  the  gate-post. 

The  man  stepped  up,  still  holding  his  hat. 
"  Pardon  me,  miss,"  he  said  ;    **  excuse  the 
question,  but — ^is  this  Preece's  Farm  ?  '* 
'    *'  That's  right,"  said  the  girl. 

"Oh  .  .  .  '."sighed  the  stranger.    "You'll 


Ivy  Leaves  99 

pardon  me,  miss,  but  'ave  I  the  pleasure  to 
address  Miss  Preece  ?  " 

**  Yes,"  said  Victoria — "  I'm  one  on  'em." 

"  What  weather  for  February  !  "  observed 
the  man. 

"  It  won't  last,"  Victoria  replied.  She 
spoke  at  random  ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  ivy  leaves. 

"  Pardon  me,  miss  ;  excuse  the  question," 
continued  the  stranger,  **  but  could  I  talk  to 
anybody — on  a  matter  o'  business  ?  " 

Victoria  Alexandra  shook  her  head.  "  There 
be'ant  nobody  'ere — only  me.  If  'tis  about 
the  ship-sales,  you  might  find  father  at  the 
King's  'Ead." 

"  Excuse  me,  miss,"  responded  the  stranger, 
"  but  I  aint'  a-doin'  sheep.  Now,  pardon  me, 
miss  ;  but  let  me  ask  you  the  question  :  *  Is 
your  life  insured  ?  '  " 

Victoria  Alexandra  stared  at  his  cuff-links 
and  the  ivy  leaves. 

"  I  'ave  'ere,"  continued  the  stranger  with 
gesture,  producing  from  his  pocket  a  sheaf  of 
papers — blue,  green,  yellow,  and  white  papers 
— "  I  'ave  'ere  a  very  saucy  proposal " 

Victoria  Alexandra  started  at  the  word. 
She  did  not  deceive  herself.  The  strictly  com- 
mercial tenor  of  the  stranger's  utterances,  if 


lOO  Cottage  Pie 

not  their  exact  significance,  was  rendered 
sufficiently  obvious  by  his  manner.  But  it 
was  a  rare  word,  with  genteel,  urbane 
associations.  .  .  .  She  would  have  him 
repeat  it. 

"  You  got  what  ?  "  demanded  Miss  Preece. 

"  A  very  special  proposal,  miss,"  said  the 
stranger. 

"  A  what  ?  "  repeated  the  girl. 

"  A  proposal,"  insisted  the  man.  "  That 
is  what  we  call  it  in  the  insurance  business 
when  we  put  it  before  you  how  advantageous 
it  is  to  take  advantage  of  the  exceptional 
terms  which  we  put  before  you.  This  proposal 
I  am  putting  before  you  now  is  something 
extra  ;  upon  me  word,  miss,  it  is  a  real  saucy 
proposal,  as  I  said  before  in  my  joking  way, 
if  you  will  pardon  me. 

" ,  .  .  R !  'Ere  we  are,"  pursued  the 
stranger,  selecting  a  pale  pink  document  from 
his  sheaf.  "  This  is  our  proposal  B.  Now, 
miss,  if  you  was  to  come  in  under  the  premium 
bonus  section,  putting  you  at  twenty  ? — 
you  can't  be  more  than  twenty  ? — if  you'll 
pardon  me  for  asking,  miss." 

"  Twenty — er — three,  last  birthday,"  re- 
plied Victoria  Alexandra,  drawing  a  finger 
across  her  apron,  and  eyeing  the  indestruct- 


Ivy  Leaves  loi 

ible  emblem  of  persistency  and  hope  which 
decorated  his  button-hole. 

"  You  surprise  me — ^if  you'll  pardon  me 
for  sayin'  so,"  observed  the  stranger. 
-  Now " 

"  Ain't  it  rather  cold  for  you  out  'ere  ?  " 
broke  in  the  girl.  "  There's  a  fire  inside,  and 
I  was  goin'  to — to  make  meself  some  tea." 

"  What  ho  !  "  replied  the  stranger. 

**  'Tis  me  own  baking,"  murmured  Victoria, 
a  little  later,  when,  after  carefully  unbutton- 
ing his  overcoat  in  avoidance  of  the  possible 
contingencies  of  tea-stain  or  creasing,  he  had 
seated  himself  at  the  table. 

"  What  ho  !  "  repeated  the  stranger.  "  If," 
he  continued,  "  what  you  tell  me  about  your 
age  is  true — though,  mind  you,  I  can  'ardly 
credit  it — then  I'm  not  so  sure  but  what  our 
sub-section  B.H.  won't  suit  you  better.  You 
lose  the  bonus,  but  there's  a  very  attractive 
cycle  accident  clause,  and  you  pay  the  same 
premium  as  if  you  started  at  twenty,  under 
B.  What  we  lose  on  the  swings  we  makes  up 
on  the  round-abouts.  At  the  same  time, 
mind  you " 

"  Now,  did  I  sugar  it,  or  didn't  I  ?  "  de- 
manded Victoria,  breaking  in  on  the  exposi- 
tion. 


I02  Cottage  Pie 

"  You  didn't,"  stated  the  stranger,  after 
investigation. 

"  Of  course,"  he  continued,  "  if  anybody 
should  'appen  to  fancy  a  sporting  poUcy,  there 
is  our  Continuously  Cumulative  Bi- Yearly 
Tontine  proposition.    If " 

*'  I  'aven't  got  no  money  meself,"  an- 
nounced Victoria  at  this  point.  "  I  aven't 
got  neer  a  penny,  on'y  what  lie  in  the  Savings 
Bank,  and  father  keeps  the  book  o'  that.  But 
if  you  like  I'll  talk  to  father." 

"  Go  on — will  you  ?  "  cried  the  stranger 
briskly,  laying  down  his  papers  and  holding 
out  his  cup. 

Victoria  Alexandra  blushed  and  tingled  as 
she  took  it.  "  Saucy  way  you  do  your  'air  !  " 
she  hazarded,  desiring  to  create  an  uncom- 
mercial atmosphere. 

"  Think  so  ?  "  replied  the  stranger.  "  Was 
you  larkin',  or  did  you  mean  it  ?  Will  you 
really  put  our  advantages  in  front  of  your  old 
man  ?  " 

Victoria  nodded.  "He  is  a  rare  one  for 
insuring,"  she  announced.  "  He  got  a  rare 
belief  in  it.  Me  and  me  mother  and  the 
other  gels  and  the  sheep,  we  be  all  in- 
sured already.  But  I  dessay  he  won't  make 
no  objections  if  I  tells  'im  as  I  got  a  fancy 


Ivy  Leaves  103 

to  go  in  for  it  again.  'Tis  me  own  money, 
anyways." 

"To  be  sure,  miss,"  assented  the  agent. 
"  Then  I'll  leave  the  papers  with  you."  He 
began  to  button  up  his  overcoat. 

"  You'll  come  again,  of  course  ? "  de- 
manded Victoria  Alexandra.  ..."  Else  I 
sha'n't  know " 

"  Of  course !  "  exclaimed  the  stranger. 
"  I'll  be  round  'ere  this  day  week.  No  doubt 
you'll  'ave  the  form  filled  up  be  then." 

"To  be  sure  I  will,"  replied  the  girl. 
"  And,"  she  added,  with  a  sideways  look, 
"  it  may  be  as  I'll  'ave  the  teapot  filled,  to 
boot." 

"  What  ho !  "  exclaimed  the  stranger. 
"  But,"  he  continued,  "  beggin*  yere  pardon, 
miss,  if  you'll  excuse  the  question,  what 
amount — 'ow  much — do  you ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Victoria  Alexandra,  "  'tis  the 
ten-and-sixpenny  lot  Tm  takin'."  .  .  . 
"  Saucy  button-' ole  you  got !  " 

"  Think  so  ?  "  inquired  the  stranger.  "  It's 
our — I  meantersay,  if  you'll  pardon  the 
liberty,  miss,  per'aps  you  will  allow  me.  Ten- 
and-sixpence,  eh  ?  A  very  sound  invest- 
ment :  a  good  half-guinea's  worth."  The 
stranger,  as  he  spoke,  was  fumbling  at  his 


104  Cottage  Pie 

button-hole,  and,  having  at  last  detached  the 
everlasting  emblem  of  everlastingness,  he 
dropped  it  into  the  hand  of  the  girl. 

"  Why,"  cried  she,  in  pleased  astonishment, 
"  it  ain't  a  real  bit,  after  all.    It's " 

"  A  sort  of  'igh-art  touch,"  exclaimed  the 
stranger.  "  Make  a  pritty  brooch  or  what 
not." 

"  And  you'll  come  again,"  said  the  girl, 
taking  his  hand  in  hers.  "  You'll  come  again 
— nex'  Tuesday — for  the  papers." 

"  Thet's  right,"  said  the  man. 

He  walked  towards  the  door,  and  she 
followed  him,  carrying  his  hat,  which  she  had 
picked  up  from  the  table. 

At  the  gate  she  took  his  hand  again.  "I'll 
wear  it  in  me  belt,"  she  said.  "  Nex'  Tuesday, 
then.    What  time  ?  " 

"  Any  time  'tween  twelve  and  four,"  re- 
plied the  man.  **  Ow,  by  the  way,  miss,  our 
policies  take  effect  from  the  minute  when  I 
gives  you  the  receipt  for  the  money."  He 
took  his  hat  off — ^right  off,  showed  his  new 
teeth  in  a  generous  smile,  pulled  on  his  glove, 
and  .  .  .  she  watched  him  turn  the  corner 
with  devouring  eyes. 

Mr.  Preece  and  Mo'er  and  the  girls  were 
duly  privileged  to  view  the  'igh-art  touch 


Ivy  Leaves  105 

which  the  generous  stranger  had  left  behind 
him.  And  Mr.  Preece,  when  the  advantages 
of  sub-section  B.H.  had  been  several  times 
explained  to  him,  consented  gracefully  enough 
to  debit  his  daughter's  bank-book  with  a  cash 
advance  of  ten-and-sixpence.  "  'Tis  worth 
the  money,"  he  observed,  "  to  be  quit  of  your 
durn  clatter." 

Next  Wednesday  came  at  last,  and  it  was 
'*  off "  day — save  for  Victoria  Alexandra, 
who,  displa5dng  an  unexpected  solicitude  for 
the  paternal  interests,  stayed  at  home  to  fill 
and  prepare  the  pickle-tub. 

She  was  alone  at  the  farm  after  one  o'clock, 
and  from  that  hour  until  nearly  four  her  blue 
hands  rested  on  the  gate-latch. 

But  the  stranger  did  not  come.  Nobody 
came — until,  at  last,  when  it  wanted  but  three 
minutes  to  the  hour,  there  came  the  sound  of 
hoof-beats  and  a  countrified,  local  fellow, 
riding  nag-back,  pulled  up  at  the  gate. 

"  I  called  for  ten-and-sixpence  and  your 
'surance  paper,"  stated  this  emissary,  gazing 
down  upon  her  bosom,  from  between  the  third 
and  second  buttons  of  which  protruded  a  pink 
paper. 

Victoria  Alexandra  eyed  the  horseman 
hotly.    "  And  who  in  hell  be  you  ?  "  said  she. 


io6  Cottage  Pie 

"  Alf  Didcott's  my  name,  and  well  beknown 
to  you,"  replied  the  man.  **  And  I  be  local 
agent  for  the  '  Friendly  Grasp  '  Society,  and 
I  be  called  for  ten-and-sixpence  and  yere 
paper." 

Victoria,  watching  him  with  sullen  eyes, 
perceived  that  his  button-hole  was  adorned 
with  an  emblem  of  ivy  leaves  fashioned  in  tin. 
"  There's  some  mistake,"  she  said.  **  There 
beant  no  'surance  papers  yere." 

As  for  the  paper  at  her  bosom,  she  pushed 
it  out  of  sight,  and  went  indoors  and  plucked 
the  touch  of  'igh  art  from  her  waist-band  and 
flung  it  in  the  fire. 

Then  she  lay  against  the  wall  and  looked 
ridiculous — with  her  knobs  of  hair  and  her 
suety  face — and  covered  her  nice  eyes  with 
the  blue  hands  and  made  abominable  noises. 

Anon  she  straightened  herself,  went  out  to 
the  pickle-tub,  and  moved  it  near  to  the  well, 
and  dragged  up  bucket  after  bucket  of  the  icy 
water  till  her  back  ached. 


XIII 
MR.  TRACEY  AGAIN 


Mr.  Tracey  turned  up  bright  and  eariy  the 
other  morning,  and  sharpened  a  lawn-mower 
outside  my  bedroom  window.  When  he  had 
done  with  the  lawn-mower  he  found  a  scythe 
and  sharpened  that.  When  he  had  done  with 
the  scythe  he  sharpened  a  pair  of  shears  ;  and 
when  he  had  sharpened  the  shears  and  every 
other  cutting  tool  in  my  collection  he  captured 
an  iron  wheelbarrow  and  began  to  kick  it. 

Therefore  I  did  that  which  I  understand  I 
shall  in  future  be  made  to  do  by  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment :  I  got  up  an  hour  before  my  time  and 
greeted  Mr.  Tracey  from  my  bedroom  window, 
which  is  a  ground-floor  window.     I  said  : 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Tracey.  You  are 
early." 

Mr.  Tracey  said  :  "  Morgrph  !  You  bin 
gardenin'  agen,  I  see." 

"  Yes,"  I  assented,  with  a  modest  smirk, 
"  I  did  just  rake  over  that  border." 

"  When  first  I  seed  it,"  observed  Mr. 
Tracey,   "  I   say  to   meself,    *  Ullo  !  '   I  say, 

107 


io8  Cottage  Pie 

*  some  old  'en's  gone  gardenin'  yere.*  Ain't 
you  learned  enough,  then,  to  keep  they 
blarsted  flints  away  from  the  varges  ?  'Ow 
be  I  to  get  along  with  the  clippin' -shears, 
then  ?  Think  I  want  to  spend  the  'ole  day  a- 
sharpenin*,  then  ?  Won't  pay  you  to  'ave  me 
at  that  rate." 

"  Ah  well,"  said  I,  thinking  to  pacify  the 
fellow,  "  I  know  that  you  will  earn  your 
money  however  you  spend  the  time,  Mr. 
Tracey." 

"  Then  think  of  me  next  time  you  git  the 
fancy  to  goo  gardenin',"  responded  Mr. 
Tracey. 

Recognising  that  the  time  had  come  to 
dress,  I  withdrew  from  the  window  and 
searched  for  my  hosiery,  which,  as  usual,  had 
gone  to  earth.  Whilst  I  was  thus  employed 
a  violent  knock  at  the  window  drew  my  atten- 
tion to  that  object,  at  which  appeared  the 
countenance  of  Mr.  Tracey,  having  a  highly 
inflamed  appearance.  Situated  as  I  was,  upon 
my  hands  and  knees,  it  was  not  possible  to 
offer  this  incursion  the  dignified  resistance 
which  it  merited.  I  therefore  gazed  mutely 
upward  at  the  dazzling  splotch  of  sunlight 
and  Tracey. 

"  I  dii  think  I  be  safe  in  trusting  people  to 


Mr.  Tracey  Again  109 

keep  their  fingers  off  a  doll-iron,"  said  Mr. 
Tracey. 

"  A  which  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  A  doll-iron,"  repeated  Mr.  Tracey,  adding, 
in  a  tone  of  increased  bitterness,  "  and  a  cray- 
ring.  They  been  took  of  and  set  on  again,  all 
skew-wise."  Mr.  Tracey  rounded  off  his 
sentence  with  a  vulgar  expression,  which  I 
will  not  reproduce. 

I  continued  still  to  gaze  at  Mr.  Tracey  with 
mute  wonder.  I  did  not  understand  the 
nature  of  his  grievance. 

**  Be  you  turned  blacksmith,  then  ?  "  con- 
tinued Mr.  Tracey.  "  Ain't  you  satisfied  with 
your  talent  for  gardenin'  ?  " 

This  was  too  much.  I  got  upon  my  feet  and 
confronted  Mr.  Tracey.  "  Mr.  Tracey,  sir," 
I  said,  "  it  seems  to  me — er — that  you  are 
forgetting  yourself.    Ha  !  " 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  responded  Mr.  Tracey, 
"  if  I  do  forgit  myself  I  bean't  the  only  one. 
Leastways,  I  do  mind  me  own  affairs.  Now 
jest  you  look  at  that  doll-iron." 

I  looked ;  and  beheld  a  scythe  in  Mr. 
Tracey's  hand.  **  It  is  a  very  good  doll-iron," 
I  said. 

"  Good  ?  "  echoed  Mr.  Tracey.  "  Of  course 
it  be  good.     Ain't  you  jest  bought  it  new  ? 


no  Cottage  Pie 

Ain't  I  chose  it  for  you  ?  I  don't  say  nothing 
about  its  goodness.  But  did  ever  you  see  a 
doll-iron  set  as  that  be  ?  " 

**  Never,"  I  readily  admitted. 

"  I'll  lay  you  never,"  said  Mr.  Tracey. 
*'  Now  look  at  the  cray-ring,"  continued  Mr. 
Tracey.    There  was  a  silence. 

"  Well  ?  "  I  said  at  length. 

**  Well  what  ?  "  demanded  Mr.  Tracey. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  you  to  produce  the  cray- 
ring,"  I  explained. 

Mr.  Tracey' s  chronic  blush  became  in- 
tensified. He  flourished  the  scythe  about 
in  a  menacing  manner.  He  scowled  at 
me. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  finally  exclaimed,  sup- 
pressing with  a  visible  struggle  some  inward 
demon — **  pardon  mCy  sir,  but  this  here  be 
beyond  a  jest.  Look  at  the  set  o*  that 
crayring.  Look  at  the  snaith.  Look  at 
it !  " 

**  Horrible  !  "  I  murmured,  with  an  artistic 
shudder.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had 
looked  in  vain. 

**  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me,  then,  what  devil 
it  be  as  will  not  leave  my  scythe  alone,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Tracey. 

A  light  broke  in  upon  the  darkness  of  my 


Mr.  Tracey  Again  iii 

mind.  *'  This  doll-iron,  this  cray-ring,"  I 
accordingly  said — "they  have,  then,  some 
affinity  to  the  scythe  ?  " 

Mr.  Tracey  glowered  at  me.  "  'Tis  the 
scythe  I  be  complainin'  of,"  said  Mr.  Tracey. 
**  Know  a  cray-ring  whin  you  see  one,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  I  answered. 

*'  And  a  doll-iron  ?  " 

**  Of  course,"  I  repeated. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Tracey.  "  Look 
at  this  snaith." 

I  looked. 

**  Never  mind  about  that  ole  mole-trap 
there,"  said  Mr.  Tracey.  "  Let  you  set  your 
mind  on  this  snaith.  Did  you  ever  see  a  snaith 
that  lie  so  skew  as  this  be  ?  " 

**  N-not  for  a  long  time,"  I  timidly  re- 
plied. 

"  Long  time  or  short  time,  you  never  set 
eyes  on  a  snaith  as  lie  so  wicked  skew  as  this 
be.  You  never  did.  I'll  lay  you  never  did," 
thundered  Mr.  Tracey.  **  What  do  you 
reckon' s  to  be  done  about  it  ?  " 

I  looked  beseechingly  at  Mr.  Tracey. 

**  Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  that  gentleman 
suddenly,  "  but  do  you  know  a  snaith  when 
you  see  one  ?  " 


112  Cottage  Pie 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  I  replied,  "  but  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  old  friend,  I  don't." 


Mr.  Tracey  cast  the  scythe  away  from  him 
with  a  passionate  gesture.  And,  repeating 
the  unprintable  vulgarism  already  mentioned, 
he  turned  his  back  upon  me  and  strode  away. 

I  therefore  considered  that  I  had  permission 
to  go  on  dressing. 

Having  at  last  completed  that  operation, 
I  breakfasted,  and  then  felt  nearly  well  enough 
to  continue  the  dialogue  with  Mr.  Tracey.  I 
went  out  into  the  garden,  and  found  Mr. 
Tracey  engaged  in  uprooting  a  screen  of 
Jerusalem  artichokes  which  I  had  sown  with 
my  own  hands. 

**  This,"  said  Mr.  Tracey,  "  be  pretty- 
mannered  stuff,  I'm  sure,  to  go  an'  choke  a 
garden  with." 

"  I  venture,"  murmured  your  servant,  "  to 
entertain  a  liking  for  that  particular  vegetable. 
I  like  it  in  soup." 

**  Maybe,"  assented  Mr.  Tracey,  "  'tis  very 
good  stuff  in  soup  ;  but  'tis  certainly  no  use 
in  a  garden — leastways,  not  in  a  gentleman's 
garden  :  though  that,  I  will  own,  is  a  thing  as 
be  difficult  to  find  in  these  days.    Why,  bless 


Mr.  Tracey  Again  113 

my  soul,  sir,  there  be  scarcely  a  common  cow- 
man in  all  Sussex  as  would  leave  set  such 
clumberin'  tackle  as  this  be.  'Tis  the  ugliest- 
mannered  stuff  as  was  ever  dug  in.'* 

"  Well,  Mr.  Tracey,"  I  cooed,  "do  as  you 
please." 

**  Pardon  me,  sir,"  responded  Mr.  Tracey ; 
"'tis  as  you  please.  But  if  ever  I  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  a  garden  that  have  got  to 
look  shipshape,  that  ain't  got  to  have  no  sich 
clumberin',  ugly-mannered  tackle  as  this  in  it. 
'Tis  as  you  please,  sir  ;  but  if  I  got  to  take  the 
responsibility  for  this  garden,  then,  damme, 
I'll  'ave  it  as  I  want  it.  .  .  .  Many's  the  time 
I've  said  as  much  to  Major-General  Tinker." 

These  were  brave  words,  I  told  myself,  and 
should  be  accepted  joyfully.  I  accordingly 
retired  to  an  obscure  end  of  the  garden  and 
rejoiced  hard.  When  I  thought  it  safe  to  coo 
again  I  complimented  Mr.  Tracey  upon  the 
quaint  and  original  scarecrow  which  he  had 
constructed  in  the  vicinity  of  the  beans. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Tracey,  "  we  ain't  got 
nothing  to  do  in  these  days  on  to  sit  down  and 
think  out  funny  scarecrows.  To  amuse  the 
boobies,"  he  added. 

I  felt  that  Mr.  Tracey  was  getting  "  hot," 
as  they  say  when  you  look  for  the  thimble. 


114  Cottage  Pie 

I  changed  the  subject.  **  How  many  rows  of 
butter-beans  did  you  put  down  ?  "  I  smoothly 
inquired. 

**  Guess,"  said  Mr.  Tracey  archly. 

I  guessed  four. 

'*  No,"  said  Mr.  Tracey. 

"  Five  ?  " 

"  No,"  repeated  Mr.  Tracey.  "  'Tis  no 
good  going  on,  young  man,"  he  added.  **  You 
won't  never  guess  it.  Truth  o*  the  matter  is 
that  I  aren't  planted  none  o'  they  damn 
things." 

**  But,"  I  expostulated,  "  you  were  told  to 
do  so.    And  I  gave  you  the  seeds." 

"  And,"  said  Mr.  Tracey,  "  I  throwed  the 
blarsted  things  away.  What  be  the  good  of 
puttin*  in  sich  ugly-mannered,  noo-fangled 
truck  as  that  be  ?  What's  the  matter  with  a 
scarlet  runner  ?  Can  you  beat  a  scarlet  run- 
ner ?  Did  ever  your  father  eat  a  button-bean, 
or  whatever  'tis  you  call  the  funny  thing  ? 
No — nor  mine  neither.  Scarlet  runners  was 
good  enough  for  them.  A  proper  scarlet  run- 
ner, properly  growed,  properly  cooked,  that 
will  beat  all  your  new-fangled,  ugly-mannered 
American  truck.  Major-General  Tinker,  'e 
would  'a  died  afore  'e'd  eat  a  button-bean." 

"  Tell  me  this,  Mr.  Tracey,"  I  said  :  "  Have 


Mr.  Tracey  Again  115 

you  ever  seen  a  butter-bean  in  all  your  life  ? 
Don't  mind  owning  up,  you  know.  They  are 
very  little  known  in  England." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  responded  Mr.  Tracey, 
"  but  tell  me  this  :  Can  you  beat  a  scarlet 
runner  ?  " 

"  You  can,"  I  said ;  "  and  with  a  butter- 
bean.    They  have  got  to  be  planted." 

**  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Tracey,  "  you  can't ;  and 
they  won't  be  planted.    Not  in  my  garden." 

I  do  not  know  what  I  should  have  said  next 
to  Mr.  Tracey  ;  but  a  shrill  hail  from  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  garden  gate  called  me 
to  that  quarter,  where  I  found  old  Mrs.  Turner 
in  her  old  pony-carriage. 

**  I  have  come  to  know  whether  you  can 
possibly  do  without  Mr.  Tracey  to-morrow," 
said  old  Mrs.  Turner ;  "  I  so  badly  want  him  to 
trim  my  hedges." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  I  replied,  *'  but  I  cannot 
possibly  spare  him.  I've  booked  him  for  three 
days,  and  I  shall  want  him  every  minute." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  old  Mrs.  Turner,  "  such 
an  invaluable  man,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  He  is,"  I  said. 

"  So  much  sought  after,"  continued  old 
Mrs.  Turner. 

I  nodded, 


ii6  Cottage  Pie 

"  I  shall  have  to  wait  till  Friday,  then  ?  '* 
asked  Mrs.  Turner  plaintively. 

"  I  may  be  able  to  let  him  go  after  two  on 
Thursday,"  I  replied,  **  but  don't  depend  on 
that  doubtful  possibility.  I  find  it  so  difficult 
to  part  with  Tracey  when  once  I  get  him 
here." 

**  I  can  quite  believe  it,"  said  old  Mrs. 
Turner  kindly.  "  So  capable  and  cheerful 
and  polite  and  obliging,  is  he  not  ?  " 

This  was  more  than  I  could  stand.  I  looked 
very  solemnly  at  old  Mrs.  Turner. 

Old  Mrs.  Turner  looked  solemnly  at  me. 

"  For  a  gardener ,  I  mean'*  she  explained 
at  last. 


XIV 
ARCADY 


Ethel  Mary  Parker  is  commonly  regarded 
as  the  "belle"  of  this  village,  an  opinion 
which  I  do  not  share.  I  hold  that  there  is  far 
too  much  of  Ethel  Mary ;  too  much  figure,  too 
much  eyelash,  too  much  complexion,  too  much 
smile,  and,  above  all,  too  much — affability. 

At  the  same  time  I  will  admit  that  her  hair, 
which  is  the  colour  of  old  red  ale,  is  beautiful 
hair ;  I  will  admit  that  she  is  a  beautiful 
person,  if  you  can  persuade  your  eye  to  com- 
prehend her  all  at  once,  just  as  an  election 
poster  is  beautiful — ^if  you  can  persuade  your 
eye  to  comprehend  it  all  at  once.  And  she 
certainly  has  an  irresistible  way  with  pigs. 

I  saw  her  lately  doing  thus  to  a  pig,  while 
the  famished  January  sunshine  warmed  itself 
in  her  hair.  She  was  holding  the  pig — a  broad, 
and  loud,  and  lusty  pig — by  its  irresponsive 
tail  and  hammering  it  simultaneously  with  a 
stout  deal  board.  Benny  Crow,  who  helps  the 
village  choir  with  the  loudest  and  nethermost 
G  in  five  parishes,  stood  by  Ethel's  side,  hold- 

117 


ii8  Cottage  Pie 

ing  in  one  fat  hand  a  portion  of  that  lady's 
waist-line,  and  in  the  other  a  sharp  steel  knife. 
Their  concerted  efforts  were  addressed  to  the 
problem  of  getting  their  pig  to  the  kiUing- 
trough.    Said  Ethel : 

"  Give  over.  I  tell  ye  there's  a  pin  in  moi 
belt.  'Tis  luck  Oi  cotched  th*  oold  davil.  'E 
would  a'  runned  into  the  rood  if  Oi  'eddent  a* 
cotched  'im." 

"  Oi'U  chanst  the  pin,"  responded  Benja- 
min, with  gallantry  and  in  his  fullest  G. 
"  This  oold  bloke  would  never  a*  got  to  the 
rood.    They  faggots  be  theer  to  stop  'im." 

"  They  sticks  theer !  "  cried  Ethel  deris- 
ively. "  'E'd  a'  shoved  they  things  asunder  in 
two  seconds.  You've  a-found  the  pin,  Oi  see." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Benny,  carefully  Ucking 
his  finger.  **  Oi  be  good  at  findin*  trouble." 
He  flung  his  great  arm  suddenly  about  her 
neck,  and  tugging  her  face  towards  him,  kissed 
her  flaunting  lips. 

"  Simminly,"  said  Ethel,  as  she  cuffed  his 
grimy  ear — with  a  certain  tenderness,  how- 
ever. "  Tennerate,"  added  Miss  Parker, 
**  that  don't  sim  as  you  be  very  well  able  to 
'old  a  pig." 

"  I  kin  'old  what  Oi've  a  mind  to,"  answered 
Benny.    He  took  her  big,  red  hand  in  his  own 


A  ready  119 

big  hand  and  wrenched  it  away  from  the  pig's 
tail ;  he  put  the  knife  between  his  teeth  ;  he 
seized  the  pig's  tail  with  his  other  hand  and 
twisted  it  steadily.  The  pig  squealed.  You 
might  suppose  that  pigs  were  human  beings, 
born  without  a  sense  of  humour,  to  hear  how 
piteously  he  squealed. 

Ethel  Mary  Parker  saw  the  joke,  and 
laughed.  "  *Ark  at  the  silly  bleater  !  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  'E  say  *  Wee  !  Wee  ! '  "  She 
jabbed  at  his  helpless,  billowy  flanks  with  her 
hunk  of  deal. 

"  Oo  wee  !  Oo  wee  !  Oo  wee  !  "  exclaimed 
the  silly  pig. 

"  Wee,  wee,  wee ! "  cried  Ethel  Mary, 
mocking  him. 

Mr.  Crow  surveyed  the  deed  approvingly. 
"  That'll  bring  out  'is  dimples,"  he  remarked. 

*'  Hee,  hee  !  "  cried  Ethel. 

"  Haw,  haw !  "  cried  Mr.  Crow. 

"  What  be  you  a-laughin'  at  ?  "  Ethel  then 
demanded  unexpectedly.  "  'E  be  your 
master,  any  rood." 

"  That  theer  pig  ?  "  questioned  Benny. 

Ethel  nodded,  a  gleam  as  of  gaiety  in  her  eye. 

Mr.  Crow  released  her  hand.  Still  twisting 
the  beast's  tail,  he  performed  some  sort  of 
somersault,  some  stratagem,  the  technique  of 


I20  Cottage  Pie 

which  would  perhaps  have  been  admired  by 
those  who  kill  pigs.  And  in  a  moment  he  had 
this  stupid  animal  by  the  ring  which  was 
affixed  to  his  snout. 

He  tugged  at  the  ring  triumphantly — 
victoriously — contemptuously.  Ethel  Mary, 
doubting  no  longer,  applied  her  strong  hands 
to  the  tail  part,  imitating  Mr.  Crow's  per- 
formance very  creditably.  In  a  very  few 
moments  they  had  him  at  the  killing-trough. 

In  another  few  moments  Benny  had  him 
prostrate,  bound,  and  helpless. 

"  Wee,  wee,  wee  !  "  cried  Ethel.  "  'Ark  at 
the  bleater !  " 

**  'Oo  be  master  now  7  "  demanded  Mr.  Crow, 
as  he  tugged  her  flushed  face  towards  him. 

"  Get  away  with  ye,  y*  ugly  great  beast,'* 
responded  Ethel,  resting  her  head  contentedly 
upon  his  shoulder. 

When  they  had  fondled  thus  for  some 
minutes,  Mr.  Crow  released  her  and  went  back 
for  his  sharp  knife,  which  he  had  cast  upon 
the  ground. 

At  the  same  moment  your  servant  was 
seized  with  a  notion  to  take  walking  exercise. 
He  walked,  and  walked,  and  walked  for 
several  minutes — or  was  it  hours  ? — or  was  it 
days  ? — until  he  came  to  a  copse  by  the  side 


A  ready  121 

of  a  little  stream,  where  was  also  an  old  stone 
bridge.  And  upon  the  parapet  of  this  bridge 
sat  our  future  Squire,  young  Mr.  Smith,  from 
the  'AH,  who  had  blood  upon  his  gaiters,  and 
blood  upon  his  boots,  and  blood  upon  his  coat, 
all  of  which  proceeded  from  two  dead  rabbits, 
which  were  hanging  now  across  his  shoulders. 

Seeing  this,  your  servant  was  taken  with 
another  notion — ^to  turn  about  and  walk  the 
way  he  had  come. 

He  walked,  and  walked,  and  walked,  while 
young  Mr.  Smith  (from  the  'All)  walked,  and 
walked,  and  walked  also  ;  crying  at  intervals, 
**  Here,  I  say,  old  chap  :   Hi !    Tally-ho  !  " 

By  the  time  I  got  back  to  Benny  and  Ethel 
again,  young  Mr.  Smith  had  walked  me  down. 

The  pig  was  still  squealing  ;  but  so  faintly 
as  to  make  it  evident  that  Mr.  Crow  had  done 
that  which  w£ls  to  do.  And  Mr.  Crow  (whose 
clothes  and  figure  were  wet  with  other  evi- 
dence) sat  upon  a  style  with  Ethel's  arms 
around  his  neck. 

Mr.  Smith,  who  now  was  walking  level  with 
me,  shifted  his  dripping  burden  from  one 
shoulder  to  the  other,  and  spoke,  sa5dng,  with 
a  good-natured  laugh  : 

"  I  say,  old  man,  some  people  have  curious 
ideahs  of  enjoyment — ^what  ?  " 


XV 

A  MATTER  OF  SHEEP 


Mr.  Will  Judkins,  accompanied  by  a  pitch- 
fork, sat  on  the  stile  at  Three  Gates  Bottom 
and  welcomed  in  the  spring.  **  ;"-^  and 
*-x''^?:  and   ^--icrr.,"  said  Mr.  Judkins. 

Mr.  Judkins  being  a  husbandman  of  lofty 
character,  I  marvelled  somewhat  at  these 
words. 

"  What  a  lovely  morning  it  is,  to  be  sure, 
Mr.  Judkins,  sir,"  I  said.  **  Quite  spring- 
like !  " 

"  What  say,  young  man  ?  "  queried  Mr. 
Judkins. 

I  looked  at  the  sky,  which  was  like  unto 
some  infinite  fairy  sea,  with  ships  o'  sail  at 
voyage  upon  its  distant  marge — great  galleon 
ships  with  bellying  sails  of  fine-spun  silk.  And 
I  looked  upon  the  orchard  at  Mr.  Judkins's 
back,  behind  the  gate,  and  there  were  bright 
green  catkins  on  the  nut  stems  ;  and  under- 
neath a  cherry  tree  three  little  wild-sown 
crocuses  were  bursting  into  splendour. 

"  I  said,"  remarked  your  servant,  **  that  it 

122 


A  Matter  of  Sheep  1 23 

is  wonderful  weather  for  March.  Quite  spring- 
Hke." 

"  y>v  the  weather,"  said  Mr.  Judkins. 

"  But  listen  to  that  lark,  sir,"  I  protested. 

"  They  larks,"  mused  Mr.  Judkins,  his  kind 
white  beard  majestically  floating  in  the  sun- 
light, "  they  be  the  damndest  rascals  as  ever 
cursed  a  poor  man  on  his  land." 

"  But  they  can  sing  !  "  I  suggested. 

"  Sing  !  "  reiterated  Mr.  Judkins.  ''  And 
who  the  i'c .-:.:  has  got  the  time  for  singin'  ? 
Moi  ewes  be  arl  broke  loose." 

"  A  scamper  in  the  sunlight  will  do  them 
good,"  I  ventured  to  point  out. 

Mr.  Judkins  dismounted  from  his  stile  and 
eyed  me  with  a  weary  eye.  "  You  be  a  simple- 
ton, Oi  think,"  he  said. 

**  It  is  the  sunshine,"  I  explained.  "  Makes 
one  feel  so  gay  and  careless.  Don't  you  find 
the  same  yourself  ?  " 

Mr.  Judkins  plucked  a  catkin  and  broke  it 
with  his  fingers.  "  Moi  sheep,"  he  pursued,  "  be 
arl  broke  loose.  Their  pens  be  arl  to  blazes. 
Theer's  a  day's  work  settin'  they  darned 
hurdles  roight.  And  do  you  suppose  as  ever 
Oi  kin  foind  me  ere  a  man  to  droive  they 
sheep  back  'oom  agin  ?  Theer's  six  or  seven  o* 
moi  best  ewes,  wi'  lambs  at  foot,  as  be  loose 


124  Cottage  Pie 

in  Goddard's  Piece  beyant  the  roise  theer; 
theer's  fower  oold  besoms  and  eight  young 
lambs  be  scruffiin*  up  moi  winter  oats  be'oind 
ye  theer  ;  and  theer's  moi  oold  black  ewe — 
the  one's  Oi  'ahd  from  the  Squire  'isself,  thaht 
be'^broke  into  moi  brother's  orchard,  'im  an' 
me  not  talkin'  an'  all !  An'  yare  be  yew  a- 
talkin'  o'  the  spring.  *  Ds  j;  *  the  spring ! ' 
Oi  say. 

"  Theer's  our  young  Will  'as  be  sot  among 
the  bird-pens  at  this  very  minute.  Wi'  a 
concertina  in  'is  'and  an'  a  tuppeny  cigar 
between  'is  chops,  an'  a  grin  all  oover  'im  as 
would  stretch  from  yare  to  Petterling.  *  Our 
sheep  be  arl  broke  loose,'  says  Oi  to  'im ;  *  so 
stop  this  mad-brained  foolin',  do,'  says  Oi. 
*  What  for  ?  '  says  'e.  'To  droive  'em  'oom, 
ye  long-nosed  puppy,'  Oi  ses.  *  Tut,'  says  'e, 
the  long-nosed  puppy.  *  Tut ! '  says  'e,  to  'is 
father's  face.  '  Oi  be  larnin'  a  song  for  the 
'arvest-'oom.'  Larnin'  a  song  for  the  'arvest- 
*oom,  darg  boite  'im.    An'  us  be  still  in  March. 

"  Then  theer  be  Septimus,  our  dung-cart 
boy.  Do  ye  thenk  Oi  kin  foind  that  davilish 
lad  ?  'E  he  oover  to  the  dairy  a-rackenin'  to 
larn  my  darter  Kate  make  curds  or  some  sich 
Devonsheer  foolery,  same's  they  eat  abroad. 
An'  do  you  thenk  Oi  kin  foind  moi  darter 


A  Matter  of  Sheep  1 25 

Kate  ?  That  gigglin'  baggage,  she  be  in  the 
dairy  along  o*  Septimus  ! 

"  An'  moi  eldest  darter  Susan,  'er  as  be 
thaht  fond  o'  Boible-study,  Oi  did  thenk  as 
what  a  maiden  of  'ev  age  an'  'omely  looks 
could  be  depended  on.  But  bless  ye,  no  ! 
The  arkid  fool  be  rood  to  Petterling  in  a  egg- 
cart  along  of  'Arry  Dukes,  the  'iggler's  son. 
Whoi,  even  me  married  darter  Jane — *er  as  Oi 
did  believe  to  own  some  sense  at  one  toime— 
she  be  busy  wi'  a  child-birth.  .  .  .  And  theer's 
moi  sheep  be  arl  broke  loose." 

"  But  it  is  a  beautiful  spring  morning,"  I 
pointed  out. 

"  'i\\ ;  i  and  Ij^^r::.  and  vUi:;. !  "  said  Mr. 
Judkins.  "Theer's  moi  black  ewe  be  broke 
into  Tom  Judkin's  medder,  an'  'im  an'  me  not 
talkin'." 

"  And,"  I  added,  "  there  is  a  plump  little 
woman  at  the  cross-roads  waving  a  little  hand 
at  you." 

**  Drat  the  women,"  said  Mr.  Judkins. 
"  'Ow'U  Oi  get  moi  sheep  '00m  ?  " 

**  Why,"  quoth  I,  taking  pity  upon  the  man 
in  his  despair,  "  why,  Mr.  Judkins,  sir,  seeing 
that  the  spring  has  come,  I  think  that  /  will 
help  you  drive  the  sheep  home.  Unless  that 
lady  there  should  be  your  daughter  Susan. 


126  Cottage  Pie 

In  which  case  I  daresay  you  would  prefer  that 
she  should " 

"  Go'  bless  my  soul !  "  interpolated  Mr. 
Judkins,  shading  his  venerable  eyebrows  to 
inspect.  "  That  be  the  Widder  Mockley. 
An'  wavin'  me  and  arl !  " 

"  In  the  matter  of  these  sheep,  now,"  I 
continued.  "  Supposing  that  I  skirt  the 
hedge  there,  along  by  Goddard's  Piece,  while 
you  stop  here  at  the  stile  and  wait  until  I 
drive  the  sheep  from " 

"L. •/..•:  the  sheep,"  said  Mr.  Judkins. 
"  Thaht  be  the  Widder  Mockley.  Go'  bless 
moi  soul.  An'  me  so  muddied  up  an'  arl.  An* 
she  a- wavin*  to  me.    Go'  bless  moi  soul." 

Mr.  Judkins  threw  aside  his  pitchfork  and 
started  up  the  road. 

**  Ba-a-a-a-a  !  "  remarked  a  middle-aged 
sheep  in  Goddard's  Piece. 


XVI 

THE  HERITAGE  APPOINTED 

That  which  first  of  all  attracted  me  to  a  little 
old  lady  who  walked  towards  me  along  the 
High  Street  of  Petterling  was  the  remarkable 
red  cap  wherewith  her  head  was  geared.  I 
knew  the  cap  at  once,  and  by  that  token  knew 
its  wearer.  This  woollen  cap  is  the  accepted 
regalia  of  Unity  Pyke,  our  blind  woman. 

It  surprised  me  to  see  her  making  forth  so 
very  early  of  an  autumn  morning.  It  surprised 
me  to  mark  the  ease  and  directness  of  her  gait, 
which  is  the  marvel  of  Petterling.  She  does 
not  tap  her  way  :  she  does  not  even  feel  for  it. 

Unity  is  an  especial  and  particular  crony  of 
mine.  We  have  drunk  tea  and  perused  the 
Scriptures  in  company.  Those  passages  from 
the  Old  Testament  which  she  particularly 
favours  are  they  which  have  traffic  with  war 
and  love.  Which  is  so  much  as  to  say  that 
she  favours  the  entire  literature  of  Israel. 
Upon  the  other  hand,  one  must  except  from 
her  regard  such  narratives,  however  engaging, 
which  have  a  purely  visual  basis.    It  is  of  no 

127 


128  Cottage  Pie 

use  seeking  to  interest  her  with  the  tale  of 
Solomon  and  his  glory.  How  should  poor 
Unity  rejoice  for  that  he  builded  unto  the 
Lord  a  temple  having  a  blue  and  purple  veil, 
upon  which  cherubims  were  broidered  ?  The 
soul  of  Unity  is  windowless,  and  blue  and 
purple  are  to  her  expressions  only,  like  **  tall  " 
or  "  thin,"  and  "  light  "  and  "  dark."  Also 
(unlike  the  fortunate  reader),  she  would  not 
recognise  a  cherubim  if  she  met  one  ;  and  as 
for  the  lilies  which  are  more  beautiful  than 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  any  reference  to  them 
serves  merely  to  conjure  up  recollections  of  a 
faint  and  nauseous  smell. 

*'  Pray  !  Thaht's  good  !  "  she  asserted  only 
yesterday,  when  I  had  finished  the  account 
of  Samson  and  his  remarkable  find  of  honey 
in  the  carcase  of  a  lion.  The  lion  represented 
a  definite  idea  to  her,  you  see,  for  she  had 
heard  one  roar  in  the  early  nineties,  when  the 
distinguished  Mr.  Wombwell  came  to  Petter- 
ling.  "  Moi !  I  do  tramble  yet,  o*  noights,  to 
thenk  on  it !  "  As  for  honey — why,  a  jar  of 
that  stimulating  confection  is  Unity's  tradi- 
tional legacy  from  the  harvest  thanksgivers 
at  Petterling  Church.  "  An'  pray,"  says 
Unity,  '*  they  bees  be  nisy  creaters  wi'  their 
purrin'  an'  that  o'  sunny  days." 


The  Heritage  Appointed       129 

I  told  you,  didn't  I,  that  she  favoured  the 
love  passages  of  Scripture  ?  I  will  tell  you 
again,  then  :  for  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

Thereby  hangs  a  tale  :  and  although  it  has 
really  nothing  to  do  with  the  fact  which  I  set 
out  to  record,  I  will  postpone  that  anecdote  a 
little  longer,  and  tell  you  Unity's  tale. 

It  began  with  her  birth  ;  for  she  was  born 
blind.  And  some  people  are  of  opinion  that 
much  may  be  forgiven  to  them  that  walk  in 
darkness.  This,  however,  was  not  the  view 
of  the  gentleman  who  ruled  over  Petterling  as 
squire  when  Unity  was  young.  For  he  was  a 
godly  squire.  He  held  the  belief  that  acts 
which  were  bad  acts  in  persons  completely 
supplied  with  their  senses  and  faculties  be- 
came transformed  into  sins  of  an  indescribable 
and  unforgivable  character  when  practised  by 
the  afflicted.  This,  anyhow,  is  the  standard 
of  judgment  which  he  applied  to  Unity — he 
and  his  dear,  good  maiden  sister,  whose  virtues 
and  excellencies  are  so  eloquently  described 
upon  the  handsome  marble  urn  which  per- 
petuates her  memory  in  Petterling  Church. 

It  was  like  this,  you  see.  Unity's  mother, 
being  London  bred,  as  Unity  herself  has  told 
me,  proved  herself  unequal  to  the  efforts  in- 
volved in  her  association  with  Unity's  birth. 


130  Cottage  Pie 

So  that  Unity  came  into  this  world  not  only 
without  eyes  of  her  own,  but  also  without  the 
aid  of  those  fond  eyes  which  might  have 
helped  to  pierce  the  mists  for  her.  And 
Unity's  father,  who  worked  in  the  fields, 
worked  himself  into  an  illness  which  termin- 
ated fatally  when  Unity  had  reached  the 
aggravatingly  neutral  age  of  sixteen  years. 
So  that  something,  obviously,  had  to  be  done. 

Now,  the  Parson  did  not  see  what  he  could 
do.  There  was  the  coal  fund,  and  the  blanket 
fund,  and  Dame  Pattigrew's  fund  for  ten  poor 
widows  of  this  parish.  But  even  a  blind  girl 
cannot  subsist  entirely  on  coals  and  blankets  ; 
and  as  for  Dame  Pattigrew's  bequest,  the 
terms  of  that  document  were  inexorable. 
And  the  other  small  funds  available  for  pur- 
poses of  charity  had  been  ear-marked  months 
ago.  Besides  which,  observed  the  reverend 
gentleman,  there  was  a  something  called 
"  precedent  "  which  really  must  be  respected. 
But  what  about  the  Guardians  ? 

The  Guardians  really  did  not  see  what  they 
could  do.  Those  gentlemen  expressed  them- 
selves as  being  more  than  eager  to  welcome 
poor  Unity  as  a  permanent  resident  of  their 
workhouse.  But  that  institution,  admirably 
conducted  though  it  was,  could  offer  nothing 


The  Heritage  Appointed       131 

to  its  guests  beyond  a  routine  existence  of  the 
most  rigorous  monotony.  Than  this,  they 
suggested,  some  more  kindly  haven  might  be 
found  for  a  creature  so  young  and  lonely  as 
this  poor  child.  Out-relief  ?  That  question 
the  honourable  board  would  be  pleased  to 
consider  upon  its  merits.  A  contribution  not 
exceeding  two  shillings  weekly  could  be  defi- 
nitely promised,  and  it  might  be  that  they 
could  see  their  way  to  granting  a  princely  dole 
of  double  that  sum.  Powerful  influences 
were,  indeed,  at  work  to  that  end.  Beyond 
this,  they  could  do  nothing.  Their  powers 
were  limited,  they  said.  And  it  must  further 
be  remembered  that  public  benefactions  were 
necessarily  governed  by  a  factor  termed 
precedent — an  element  which  at  all  costs 
must  be  regarded. 

Then  the  friends  of  little  Unity  (the  poor 
and  the  afflicted  had  their  friends  in  Petter- 
ling  fifty  years  ago,  even  as  to-day)  :  these 
friends,  I  say,  then  played  their  final  card. 
They  brushed  their  hats,  and  wiped  their  feet, 
and  called  upon  their  worthy  Squire  and  that 
worthy  dame,  his  sister. 

That  gentleman,  as  became  a  patriarch  and 
a  Christian,  met  the  situation  nobly.  He 
really  did  not  see  that  there  was  much  which 


132  Cottage  Pie 

he  could  do  ;  but  that  much  he  would  do, 
with  a  Christian  gladness  in  the  deed.  The 
deputation  had  pointed  out  that  there  were 
many  claims  upon  his  purse  :  it  therefore  was 
unnecessary  for  him  to  say  anything  further 
upon  that  point.  The  deputation  had  also 
pointed  out  that  Unity's  forbears  had  worked 
upon  his  farms  for  several  generations.  In 
recognition  of  that  fact,  he  had  arranged  with 
his  dear  sister  to  provide  the  young  woman 
with  a  two-roomed  cottage  on  the  estate, 
which  residence  she  might  occupy  free  of  cost. 
Also,  he  had  used  his  influence  with  the 
Guardians  to  procure  the  young  woman  a  sum 
in  out-relief  amounting  to  four  shillings 
weekly.  Over  and  above  these  acts  of  charity, 
he  proposed,  in  evidence  of  Christian  pity, 
and  in  recognition  of  the  duties  attaching  to 
the  situation  of  life  wherein  it  had  pleased  the 
Almighty  to  place  him,  to  give  the  girl  from 
his  privy  purse  an  additional  pension  of  four 
shillings  weekly.  He  would  also  make  it  his 
especial  care  to  see  that  she  was  taught  the 
rudiments  of  some  trade  compatible  with  her 
unfortunate  condition.  He  suggested  basket- 
making.  The  deputation  warmly  endorsed 
that  suggestion,  as  warmly  thanked  his 
Squireship,  and  withdrew. 


The  Heritage  Appointed       133 

So  Unity,  having  been  saved  from  the  ter- 
rors of  a  workhouse  existence,  was  pleasantly 
installed  within  the  cottage  aforesaid,  where 
it  was  confidently  expected  that  she  would 
conduct  herself  appropriately,  weaving 
rushes,  and  praising  God,  and  thinking  of  her 
blessedness.  Instead  of  which — ^instead  of 
which i 

Well,  she  conducted  herself  appropriately 
enough  for  a  year  or  so.  She  attended  the 
morning  service  and  the  evensong  every 
Sunday  at  the  church.  She  went  to  all  the 
Bible-classes.  She  spent  the  long  days  and 
the  long,  long  nights  alone  within  her  hovel, 
finding  (one  is  to  suppose)  much  peace  and 
consolation  and  entertainment  in  the  various 
reflections  which  naturally  must  fill  the  mind 
of  a  bhnd  girl  of  her  age.  Besides,  there  was 
the  weekly  visit  to  look  forward  to  of  the 
Squire's  exemplary  sister. 

I  imagine  poor  old  Unity  at  this  period  of 
her  life  (did  I  say  that  she  is  nearly  seventy 
now  ?),  I  imagine  her  at  this  period,  I  say,  as 
having  been  a  fresh,  Httle,  dark-haired  maiden 
of  Quaker  habit.  I  know  that  she  must  have 
been  beautiful,  because  all  young  things  are 
beautiful.  And  I  can  imagine  this  poor  bound 
soul  alone  in  the  dark  with  its  toil  and  its 


134  Cottage  Pie 

thoughts — ^half-formed  thoughts,  half-formed 
memories,  half-formed  wishes.  Nothing  real 
about  her  or  within  her,  nothing  save  the 
darkness.  And  I  can  imagine,  therefore,  how 
it  was  that — that 

Yes !  They  found  Jack  Munsey  in  her 
cottage.  They  found  him  in  the  night.  And 
so,  in  the  name  of  Christ,  whose  name  they 
give  to  all  their  wickedness — that  Christ  who 
forgave  a  woman  that  was  not  blind  for  sins 
beside  which  this  sin  of  Unity's  was  pure  and 
white — in  the  name  of  this  God,  I  say,  they 
seized  her  sightless,  wondering  soul,  and 
threw  it,  a  sacrifice,  to  those  bloody  wolves 
which  they  called  their  virtue. 

They  took  her  cottage  from  her,  look  you. 
And  the  Squire  and  his  sister — whose  eminent 
Talents,  Christian  Virtue,  unaffected  Piety, 
and  the  rest  of  it  are  to  this  day  advertised  in 
Petterling  Church — withdrew  their  weekly 
pension  from  the  girl.  So  that  all  which  was 
left  to  her  was  the  meagre  stipend  contributed 
by  public  charity.  And  as  she  could  not 
possibly  exist  upon  that  sum,  she  went  to  live 
with  Jack.  And  then  the  stipend  was  with- 
drawn. 

And  Jack,  he  very  soon  grew  tired  of  her. 
They  are  poor  company,  these  puling  blind 


The  Heritage  Appointed       135 

girls,  to  your  lads  of  mettle.  She  lacked 
nothing  of  submissiveness,  which,  of  course, 
caused  Mr.  Munsey  to  hanker  after  its  oppo- 
site, a  spirit  which  he  endeavoured  to  pro- 
pagate (in  an  evil  moment)  by  means  of  a 
strap.  Which  proceeding  resulted  in  Jack 
being  badly  seized  by  a  disease  which  he 
termed  the  'orrors.  There  was  a  look,  he  said, 
come  into  her  senseless  eyes  what  looked  like 
no  other  look  you  ever  see ;  and  it  followed 
him  to  work,  and  pursued  him  into  tap-rooms, 
and  presided  over  his  dreams,  so  that  he 
'listed  for  a  soldier,  and  got  shot  outside 
Sebastopol. 

Then,  being  blind  and  helpless  and  sinful, 
but  chiefly  sinful,  and,  consequently,  outside 
the  pale  of  Christian  kindness,  there  was 
nought  for  Unity  to  do  but  look  out  for 
another  Jack,  whom  she  found  in  the  person 
of  Hallelujah  Mockley,  Jack's  bosom  friend. 
When  Hallelujah  tired  of  her,  which  he  did 
speedily  by  reason  of  being  taken  with  a  com- 
plaint very  similar  to  that  which  afiflicted 
Jack,  there  was  the  workhouse  and  there  was 
infamy.  And  Unity  had  tasted  infamy  ;  but 
the  workhouse  was  an  unknown  horror,  which 
contorted  itself  variously  in  that  numb  black- 
ness which  was  her  mind. 


136  Cottage  Pie 

So  Unity  chose  the  peril  which  she  knew, 
and  sold  a  little  basketwork  as  well  :  she 
lived,  let  us  say,  by  the  sale  of  merchan- 
dise. And  year  succeeded  year,  and  still 
she  lived,  to  be  reviled  and  spat  upon 
by  little  children  whom  she  could  not 
see.  But  presently  the  velvet  pallor  of  her 
cheek  changed  into  a  rusty  drab,  and  the 
wrinkles  came,  and  her  lips  grew  dry,  so 
that  nought  remained  which  might  atone 
for  the  horror  of  sinful  eyes  which  could  not 
see. 

She  still  could  weave  her  grasses,  to  be 
sure  ;  but  a  somewhat  godly  race  of  husband- 
men was  come  into  that  countryside,  who 
hesitated  to  buy  their  gear  from  one  so  thickly 
steeped  in  mire  as  Unity.  And  people  do  not 
keep  their  dustbins  out  of  doors  in  Petterling ; 
so  that  much  in  the  nature  of  food  and  foot- 
gear and  saleable  bottle-ware  was  denied  to 
her.  And  she  could  not  see  to  steal  big 
things. 

Wherefore,  at  last,  that  vague,  incalculable 
horror  of  the  workhouse  had  to  be  proved,  and 
experienced,  and  endured.  I  remember,  years 
ago,  to  have  seen  the  little  town's  children 
stop  before  the  workhouse  gates  to  jeer,  and 
hoot,  and  stick   forth  their  tongues  at  Old 


The  Heritage  Appointed       137 

Blind  Unity  the  wanton,  as  she  sunned  her- 
self within  the  workhouse  close. 

But  then,  a  little  while  ago,  there  came  to 
live  near  Petterling  a  ribald  gentleman  having 
wealth,  who  hated  virtue  and  denied  the  God 
of  virtue :  who  haled  forth  Unity  from  the 
workhouse,  and  estabUshed  her  within  a 
cottage  of  his  own,  and  pensioned  her,  and 
goaded  the  Guardians  into  doing  likewise. 

So  that  Unity  hath  her  sinful  ease  at  last. 
She  has  honey  from  the  church,  as  I  have  said ; 
and  is  acquainted  with  persons  of  substance, 
and  with  others  who  have  merits  of  a  higher 
character,  such  as  may  be  comprised  in  an 
undoubted  gift  for  Scripture  reading. 

And  I  think  that  she  is  really  fallen  into  a 
sort  of  happiness — a  gentle  twilight  of  repose, 
spectreless  and  somnolent.  I  could  wish  that 
the  young  maids  of  the  village  would  be  kinder 
to  her.  They  and  the  matrons  are  virtue- 
ridden,  as  of  yore.  But  the  little  children  and 
the  old,  old  folk,  they  have  tolerance,  which  is 
to  say  that  they  have  pity  and  they  have  love. 
So  that  Unity  Pyke  hears  voices  in  her  twi- 
light. 

But,  as  I  said  at  the  beginning  of  this  paper, 
it  surprised  me  to  see  her  walking  out  so  very 
early  of  this  autumn  morning.     Unity  lies 


138  Cottage  Pie 

usually  a-bed  till  close  upon  midday.  She  is 
seventy,  and  wicked. 

But  when  I  had  hailed  her,  and  inquired  the 
reason  for  this  unwonted  and  injurious  ac- 
tivity, I  fell  to  wondering  even  more. 

"  Oi  be  gine  to  charch,"  says  Unity. 

"  Church  f  "  1  echoed.  "  At  this  hour  of  a 
workday  morning  !  " 

Unity,  with  a  bunch  of  her  lips  and  some- 
thing that  was  almost  a  gleam  in  those  pitiful 
eyes,  withered  me  into  silence. 

"  Pray !  "  says  this  creature  then,  this 
flower  so  sweetly  nurtured  by  our  Church  and 
State,  "  pray,  now,"  says  she,  *'  this  be  King 
Edward's  birthday,  to  be  shower — Gard  blass 
'um !  " 


XVII 
THE    SABBATARIANS 


I  TELL  this  tale  in  simple  Christian  faith, 
as  it  was  told  to  me. 

I  had  it  from  an  educated  stranger — a 
quiet,  drunken  man — whom  I  found  by  a 
brook  upon  a  hill-side  in  Sussex.  He  had 
removed  his  footgear  and  was  laving  his  feet 
within  the  running  water.  He  was  also 
smoking  a  stout  cigar,  and  laughing  and 
crying  to  himself. 

He  was  a  well-brushed,  tidy,  middle-aged 
man  of  gentlemanly  address,  and  was  mourn- 
ing, with  restraint  and  dignity,  to  a  depth  of 
not  more  than  two  inches  of  neat  crepe, 
for  his  wife's  aunt.  This  gentleman  offered 
me  a  grave  but  courteous  greeting,  and  made 
room  for  my  feet  in  the  brook,  introducing 
himself  as  Mr.  Andrew  Bellchambers,  of 
Coleman  Street,  E.C.    He  said  to  me  : 

"  You,  too,  have  lunched,  perhaps  ?  '* 

I  shook  my  head — a  little  sadly,  it  may 
be ;  for  the  way  had  been  long,  over  clay 
soil,  and  a  Sabbath  thirst  and  hunger  were 
upon  me. 

139 


140  Cottage  Pie 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  stranger,  "  I  have  lunch- 
ed." His  utterance  was  extremely  clear. 
Had  I  trusted  solely  to  my  senses  of  sight 
and  hearing,  it  might  never  have  been  made 
manifest  to  me  how  well  he  had  lunched. 
But  I  sat  to  leeward  of  him.  "  My  God  !  " 
he  continued,  "  I  have  thrice  lunched." 

I  sighed. 

"  But,  sir,"  continued  the  stranger,  "  this 
cooling  stream,  combined  with  the  amble 
from  Blowfield,  has  so  refreshed  me  that  I 
could  lunch  again.  You  have  a  clean  and 
ingenuous  countenance.  Come  to  Blowfield 
and  lunch  with  me." 

**  Indeed,  sir,"  said  your  servant,  "  I  am 
bound  for  Blowfield  and  lunch  ;   but " 

"  I  will  not  be  refused,"  said  my  strange 
companion.     "  The  King's  Arms  ?  " 

I  nodded. 

"  A  well-kept,  substantial  house,"  said  the 
stranger  authoritatively.  "  I  have  just 
lunched  there.  I  want  some  more  lunch  now. 
I  beg  that  you  will  be  my  guest.  There  is  a 
fore-quarter  of  lamb,  the  mutilated  fragments 
of  which  will  perhaps  respond  to  an  encore. 
There  is  mint  sauce  and  a  middle-aged 
Stilton ;  there  is  Perrier  Jouet  rising  eight. 
I  really  cannot  be  denied  your  company." 


The  Sabbatarians  141 

"  But  really "  I  protested.  Mr.  Bell- 
chambers,  who  by  this  time  had  donned  his 
boots,  hushed  me  with  a  gesture  of  dignified 
remonstrance. 

**  Do  not  argue,  please''  he  exclaimed. 
"  You  interfere  with  my  Sabbath  peace. 
I  know  you  do  not  know  me  ;  but  then  I  do 
not  know  you.  We  have  met,  as  it  were,  by 
chance.  Let  us  lunch,  as  it  were,  by  grave 
and  judicious  design.  I  happen  to  be  rich 
this  morning,  and  lonely  ;  the  friend  who 
came  with  me  to  Blowfield  is  young  and 
delicate.  He  has  succumbed.  He  lies  on  a 
sofa  at  the  King's  Arms  sleeping  the  Sabbath 
sleep.  He  is  young,  and  crude,  and  shy  ;  he 
lacks  experience ;  he  is  immature.  He 
slumbers.  Now  do  be  kind,  and  take  his 
place." 

"  Well,  sir,"  I  responded,  "  since  you " 

"  That  is  right,"  my  new  friend  inter- 
posed. "  That  is  spoken  friendly.  Your 
arm,  sir. 

**  You  are  perhaps  acquainted,  sir — steady 
now,  steady  !  "  continued  Mr.  Bellchambers, 
taking  my  arm,  "  you  are  perhaps  acquainted 
with  a  short  cut  to  Blowfield  ?  Excellent ! 
Excellent !  !    I  do  so  want  my  lunch. 

"  I  happen  to  be  rich  to-day,"  repeated 


142  Cottage  Pie 

the  stranger.  "  Rich  in  gold  and  rich  in 
happiness.  I  have  in  my  pocket,  sir — steady 
now,  steady  ! — I  have — or  had — in  my  pocket 
ecclesiastical  funds  to  the  value  of  eight 
pounds  thirteen  shillings  and  tenpence.  But 
oh,  my  dear  young  man,  of  what  value  is 
mere  money  when  unaccompanied  by  spiritual 
riches  ?  The  difference  between  our  respec- 
tive ages  entitles  me,  I  think,  to  address  you 
— do  keep  steady,  dammit ! — to  address  you 
in  these  fatherly  terms. 

"  I  am  this  day  rich  beyond  all  counting. 
I  have  lunched — thrice  lunched — and  I  pro- 
pose to  lunch  again.  Also,  I  have  attended 
morning  song.    Mark  you  that,  young  man  ?  " 

The  stranger  chuckled  reverently  within 
his  beard. 

**  What  perfect  weather  !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  April,  do  you  say  ?  It  is  more  like  June. 
Behold  that  cloudless  sky.  Behold  the  Sab- 
bath calm.  And  tell  me,  tell  me  candidly 
(for  you  are  now  my  friend),  are  these 
Sussex  meadows  permanently  subject  to 
seismic  tremors  ?  I  seem  to  be  walking  on 
a  blasted  earthquake.  That  is  a  charming 
little  church  at  Pucklefield,  by  the  way. 
St.  Michael's,  I  think  they  call  it — or  is 
it   St.    Mary's  ?     Late   Perpendicular,   with 


The  Sabbatarians  143 

Liberty  pews.  It  was  there  I  attended 
morning  song.  Do  you  conform  to  the 
estabUshed  faith  ?  Skirt  that  mole-hill, 
please." 

I  replied  to  Mr.  Bellchambers's  inquiry 
and  responded  to  his  request.  After  we  had 
made  the  detour,  and  I  had  picked  up  his  hat 
and  dusted  it,  he  said  : 

"  Well,  well !  It  is  perhaps  unreasonable 
to  look  for  spiritual  fervour  in  the  young. 
Upon  the  other  hand,  had  you  shared  in 
our  experiences  of  this  morning — sh  :  who 
knows  ! 

**  I  did  not,  let  me  confess  it,  attend  the 
morning  song  at  St.  Thingummy' s  of  set  or 
deliberate  purpose.  We  went  there,  really, 
to  get  out  of  the  sun.  We  sat  in  the  hallowed 
porch,  my  friend  and  I,  and  listened  to  the 
organ's  solemn  peal.  Have  you  ever  observed, 
young  man,  that  there  is  a  chipped  tile  upon 
the  porch  of  St.  Anthony's  ?  " 

I  admitted  to  Mr.  Bellchambers  that  I 
had  never  even  seen  the  parish  porch  at 
Pucklefield. 

Mr.  Bellchambers  sighed.  "  Well,  well !  " 
he  mused  ;  "  it  is  no  wonder  that  you  stagger 
so.  Try  to  walk  steadily,  or  you  will  spoil 
my  lunch.    The  friend  of  my  manhood — he 


144  Cottage  Pie 

who  now  slumbers  at  the  Blowfield  inn — 
directed  my  attention  to  the  chipped  tile, 
and  also  to  a  little  patch  of  light,  the  counter- 
part of  this  hole  in  the  roof  of  St.  Peter's 
porch  :  a  little  circular  patch  of  light  cast  by 
the  intrusive  sun  upon  the  shadowed  pave- 
ment of  St.  Peter's  porch.  It  fascinated  one, 
this  disc  of  light  upon  those  purple,  age-worn 
stones." 

I  nodded  appreciatively. 

"  A  disc  of  light,"  continued  Mr.  Bell- 
chambers.  "  Just  that !  About  the  size  of  a 
halfpenny.  My  friend,  who  now  sleeps,  had 
in  his  ticket-pocket  nearly  a  shillings- 
worth  of  copper  coins,  and  I  but  two 
pennies.  I  won  his  all,  however,  in  less  than 
three  minutes.  You  are  perhaps  acquainted 
with  the  game  of  Shove  Ha' -penny  ?  Of 
course.  But,  ah,  my  young  friend,  you  have 
never  played  it  to  an  organ  accompaniment ! 
I  can  assure  you  that  without  church  music 
the  game  loses  much  of  its  sacerdotal  charm. 

"  They  were  playing  the  last  hymn  ('  Lead, 
Kindly  Light ')  and  the  music  was  accom- 
panied by  a  sort  of  under-theme  of  chink  : 
for,  as  you  doubtless  know,  it  is  the  custom  in 
our  Anglican  churches  to  take  the  offertory 
during  the  last  hymn. 


The  Sabbatarians  145 

*'  The  notes  of  the  organ,"  continued 
Mr.  Bellchambers,  "  were  dying  away  on  the 
last  line  of  the  last  verse  when  I  gathered  in 
my  young  friend's  last  halfpenny.  And 
then  a  strange  thing  happened.  The  great 
doors   of   the   church   were   slowly   opened, 

and Tell    me,   young  man,   is   it   my 

fancy,  or  are  you  swaying  from  one  side  of 
the  road  to  the  other  ?  You  are  not.  Then  I 
apologise. 

**  The  great  doors  of  the  church,  which  were 
situated  within  the  porch,  were  slowly  opened, 

I    say,    and   we   beheld Surely    that 

building  with  Jacobean  chimneys  beyond 
the  copse  there  is  our  inn  ?  Aha  !  I  thought 
so  !  Begad,  I  am  hungry.  I  was  sa5dng  that 
the  great  doors  of  the  church  were  slowly 
opened,  to  the  space  of  about  a  foot ;  and 
peering  cautiously  through  the  opening,  we 
beheld  the  face  and  whiskers  of  a  grave 
churchwarden.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  bag  of 
purple  velvet.  He  regarded  us  at  first  with 
an  expression  of  severity,  mixed  with  wonder  ; 
then  a  gleam  as  of  battle  shone  forth  from  his 
eyes,  and  placing  his  hand  within  the  bag 
of  purple  velvet,  he  brought  forth  a  penny 
and  flung  it  towards  the  disc.  At  once  I 
covered  it.    Once  more  he  dug  into  the  purple 


146  Cottage  Pie 

bag  :  once  more  brought  forth  a  penny  and 
flung  it  at  the  disc  :   once  more  I  covered  it ! 

"  Then  we  beheld — ^it  is  good  to  think 
that  we  have  so  nearly  reached  our  destina- 
tion. I  really  could  not  keep  step  with  your 
extraordinary  gait  for  many  additional  yards. 
Where  was  I  ? 

"  Ah  yes,  we  then  beheld  a  second  face, 
that  of  a  second  churchwarden — a  blue- 
chinned  gentleman  with  a  legal  sneer,  who 
also  carried  a  velvet  bag.  He  did  not  share 
in  his  companion's  hesitancy,  but  joined  the 
game  at  once,  and  I  almost  immediately 
had  the  pleasure  of  covering  five  several 
florins,  culled  from  his  little  bag  of  purple 
velvet.  And  the  first  notes  of  a  fine  voluntary 
welled  forth  from  the  chancel.  It  was  most 
impressive. 

"  And  here  we  are.  Pray  walk  steadily 
up  these  convulsive  steps.  They  ought  to  be 
held  down. 

"  It  was,  as  I  say,  sir,  most  impressive. 
We  won  the  whole  collection." 


XVIII 
ANOTHER  MRS.  TANQUERAY 

We  met.  'Twas  in  a  lane.  She  stood  without 
the  wicket  of  a  Httle  beam-and-plaster  cottage. 
And  I  spoke  to  her  baby,  and  admired  the  dog, 
and  cadged  a  bunch  of  snowdrops.  She  was 
a  pink-faced,  smiHng  creature. 

So  we  gossiped. 

"  Your  first  ?  "  I  inquired,  alluding  to  her 
baby.    The  woman  laughed. 

"  Pray,  no  !  "  she  answered ;  but  this  ex- 
clamation was  not  uttered  in  the  proper  man- 
ner. She  spoke  it  as  they  might  speak  in 
Lambeth — a  sort  of  yelp,  quite  different  from 
the  slow,  reflective,  almost  devotional  drawl 
which  people  use  in  these  parts.  "  Pray, 
no ! "  she  said.  "  'Im's  my  third,  young 
fellar !  " 

Then  I  knew  for  certain  that  she  was  a 
Cockney.  The  native  women  do  not  call  you 
**  young  fellar." 

"  Yes,  young  fellar,"  she  repeated,  "  'im's 
my  third.  The  uvver  two  was  still-bom. 
Gals,  they  was.    This  'ere's  a  boy." 

»47 


148  Cottage  Pie 

"  And  a  very  fine  boy,  too  !  "  I  ventured 
to  observe. 

"  Well,"  responded  the  lady,  "  'e  don't  take 
after  'is  father.    That's  one  thing  !  " 

"  Father  weakly  ?  "  I  suggested. 

**  Strong  enough,"  explained  the  lady,  "  but 
dull.  One  of  them  obligin',  kind-'earted 
blokes  as  saves  their  money.  One  of  them 
cow-sperited  sort.  My  boy  'ere  (Flop,  we  call 
'im,  arter  my  man's  prize  rabbit,  what  died), 
^e  takes  arter  'is  granfer.  My  father  as  was. 
'E  was  one  of  the  right  sort,  'e  was.  No 
keepin'  bees  an*  that  about  'im.  There's  a 
fishmonger  in  Wandsworth  as  wears  a  wooden 
finger  to  this  day  through  speakin'  disrespect- 
ful to  my  father.  There  was  five-an* -forty 
people  come  to  pay  their  respecks  to  my 
father's  body  when  we  buried  'im.  It  wasn't 
'arf  a  funell,  /  can  tell  you.  Cost  a  'eap  o' 
money." 

"  The — er — event,"  I  hazarded,  **  took 
place  in  London,  of  course  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  "  replied  my  hostess. 
**  They  don't  'ave  no  funells  'ere — not  to  say 
funells.  They  do'  know  what  the  word  means, 
not  in  these  parts.  Lot  o'  savages,  they  are. 
Set  'em  to  lay  a  farrit  or  poach  a  pheasant  an* 
they'll  do  you  prahd  ;  but  when  it  comes  to  a 


Another  Mrs.  Tanqueray        149 

bit  o'  sport — lar  lumme,  the  men  round  these 
parts  they  airCt  men  at  all.  Don't  know  the 
meanin'  of  sport  no  more  than  my  boy  there 
— bless  'im. 

"  I'll  see  as  *e  don't  grow  up  to  be  no 
bloomin'  countryman.  You're  a  Londoner 
yeself,  no  doubt,  young  fellar,  an'  so  you'll 
understand.  Fancy  my  ole  father's  gran'son 
'oein'  fields !  I'd  sooner  see  'im  'listed ! 
We'll  make  a  barman  of  ums,  wown't  we, 
ducksie,  or  else  a  commission  agent's  assistant, 
sames's  granfer.  Didums  want  to  be  a  man 
like  granfer,  then  ?  And  so  ums  shall.  Or  a 
sodejer  like  urn's  Uncle  Fred,  an'  slap  um's 
leg  ?  Or  a  gent  like  Uncle  Alf,  an'  'awk 
'addicks  ?    Blessum's  pleadin'  'eart,  then  !  " 

"  If  I  thought,"  said  she,  "  as  my  boy  'ere 
was  a-goin'  to  grow  up  into  a  silly,  well-be- 
'aved  man  like  'is  father,  I  think  as  I  would 
run  away.  Not  as  I  ain't  so  sure  as  I  won't  do 
it,  even  now  !  " 

"  Run  away  from  your  husband  !  "  I  ex- 
claimed, shocked  to  the  uttermost  depths  of  a 
pure  and  sensitive  nature.  "  That  would  be 
a  fearfully  stuck-up  sort  of  thing  to  do.  He 
can't  help  being  unworthy  of  you,  you  know." 

"  That's  as  it  may  be,"  admitted  Mrs.  Dud- 
man  (I  had  elicited  her  name  at  an  earlier 


150  Cottage  Pie 

stage  of  this  discussion).  "  That's  as  it  may 
be.  I  ain't  sayin'  nothink  about  that.  But  'e 
can  'elp  gardenin'  all  'is  spare  time,  can't  'e  ? 
An*  tellin'  you  what  Ole  Moore  'as  got  to  say 
about  the  day  arter  to-morrow,  if  ever  you  so 
much  as  mention  it.  Ole  Moore's  'is  'obby. 
If  it  ain't  the  King  what's  gointer  'ave  a  ill- 
ness, or  the  blowing  up  of  London  Bridge,  it's 
a  certain  failure  of  the  potato  crop  ;  an'  if 
Hain't  that,  then  there's  gointer  be  a  million 
people  die  off  with  smallpox.  An'  there's 
never  not  a  single  item  'as  come  off  yet.  I 
always  tell  'im,  I  says  :  '  You  don't  'ave  no 
luck,  you  don't.' 

"  An'  so  'e  goes  on.  An'  talk  of  j'alousy — 
'e's  that  i'alous,  believe  me  or  not,  as  you 
please,  young  fellar,  that  when  'e  seed  me 
a-settin'  up  Peach  Lane  on  my  sister's 
'usband's  knee — 'avin'  a  game,  as  you  might 
say,  to  make  believe  we  was  spoonin' — up  'e 
comes,  a  dreadful  great  mallet  in  'is  'and,  an' 
boshes  my  sister's  'usband  aside  the  'ead — 
'im  an'  my  sister  bein'  guests  at  our  place  at 
the  time. 

"  '  What  you  stunned  'im  for,  you  clumsy 
owl  ?  '  I  says  to  'im. 

"  '  For  makin'  too  free  wi'  my  wife,'  says 
'e  ;  *  an'  if  it  'appens  agen  I'll  kill  'im.' 


Another  Mrs.  Tanqueray       151 

"  '  Your  wife  ?  *  I  says  to  'im  :  *  your  wife  ? 
'Is  sister-in-lor,'  I  says.  *  That's  what  you 
mean.  If  you  must  be  spiteful,  go  'ome,  an' 
play  make-beUeves  with  Hemma,'  I  says — 
Hemma  bein'  my  sister.  *  We're  all  one 
family,  ain't  we  ?  '  I  says.  *  You  narrow- 
minded,  ignorant  navvy,'  I  says, '  go  'ome,  an' 
learn  manners.' 

"  Wi'  that,  *e  crawls  away  an*  sulks. 

"  That's  the  kind  o'  man  'e  is.  Cow- 
sperited.  I'll  'ave  to  leave  'im  one  o'  these 
fine  days.  I  know  I  shall.  Then  we'll  see 
some  life." 

"  Who  wiU  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Me  an'  my  boy,"  replied  the  woman. 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  In  London — Walworth  or  thereabouts. 
That's  my  'ome  !  " 

"  See  some  life  in  Walworth  !  What  next, 
I  wonder  ?  " 

"  Where  else,"  responded  Mrs.  Dudman, 
"  would  you  'ave  me  see  it  ?  'Ere  in  Petter- 
ling  ?  " 

That,  of  course,  was  my  case.    I  drew  the 
attention  of  Mrs.  Dudman  to  the  January  sun, 
and  the  sky,  and  the  mackerel  clouds  that, 
hung  there.    I  directed  her  notice  to  the  hills, 
and  the  elm  trees,  already  heavy  with  their 


152  Cottage  Pie 

burden  of  little,  urgent  buds,  which  gave  a 
look  of  redness  to  the  distant  woods  ;  and  to 
the  first  green  shoots  of  corn  upon  a  meadow, 
and  to  sheep  and  a  shepherd,  and  to  many 
similar  features  of  the  landscape.  And  I 
reminded  her  that  snowdrops  do  not  blow  in 
Walworth,  nor  even  cabbages.  And  that  as 
for  gardens — why,  working-folk  in  Walworth 
cannot  even  rent  a  house,  but  must  make 
shift,  often,  with  a  single  room.  "  See  life  ?  " 
I  concluded.  "  Why,  life  doesn't  exist  at  all 
for  people  like  you — in  Walworth." 

"  I'd  hke  to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Dudman 
calmly,  "  what  life  you  reckon  is  goin'  on 
round  'ere  ?  " 

I  accordingly  reckoned  ;  and  my  reckoning 
amounted  chiefly  to  a  recapitulation  of  those 
amenities  which  I  had  previously  brought 
under  her  notice.  **  And  the  cottage,  and 
the — er — garden — and  your  baby,"  I  added. 

"  S'pose  you'd  be  a  kinder  religious  young 
fellar  ?  "  suggested  Mrs.  Dudman.  "  If  so, 
you  bin  wastin'  your  time — same's  I  'ave 
mine.  Lije,  indeed  !  What  does  a  rabbit- 
faced  yob  like  you  know  about  life  ?  " 

**  For  that  matter,  Mrs.  Dudman,  what  do 
you  know  about  it  ?  " 

That,  Mrs.  Dudman  explained  to  me. 


Another  Mrs.  Tanqtieray        153 

"  I  know  this  much,"  she  said,  **  an'  that 
is  if  ever  I  'ad  my  choice  agen  my  man  'ud 
be  a  bachelor.  Good  job,  too  !  Give  'im  a 
chance  o'  gettin'  married  to  that  yeller- 
faced  cousin  of  'is  up  Bethlehem  Hill — 'er 
what's  got  'er  back  an'  chest  changed  places. 
Life,  indeed  !  Fine  place  to  see  life  in,  this 
is  ?  Sun,  indeed !  Ow'm  I  goin'  on  for 
shelter  on  a  washin'  day  in  summer  ?  Cot- 
tage! Go's  got  the  noosance  o'  keepin'  it 
decent,  if  'tain't  me  ?  It's  easier  'ouse- 
keepin'  in  one  room,  like  what  you  make 
a  fuss  about.  An'  there's  the  garden,  too — 
brings  it  all  in  on  'is  boots,  'e  does,  an'  leaves 
lumps  on  the  floor-boards  when  I  cleaned  'em. 
As  for  trees  an'  flowers  an'  such,  I  'ates  the 
sight  of  'em. 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  folks  like  you,  as  is 
down  'ere  makin'  'oliday.  I  thought  different 
meself  at  one  time,  when  I  come  down  along 
o'  the  Sunday-school  to  be  boarded  out  at 
old  Mar  Stubbwhite's,  on  Bethlehem  Hill. 
I  believed  in  daisies  then  meself,  an'  goin* 
walks,  an'  watchin'  birds,  an'  all  the  rest 
damfoolery.  An'  so  I  come  back  every  year 
till  growed-up  I  was.  An'  then  I  went  an' 
done  it.    I  married  'im  ! 

"  Don't  you  ever  marry  outer  your  class. 


154  Cottage  Pie 

young  fellar !  Take  a  woman's  word  for  it, 
an'  don't  you  do  it.  That's  the  mistake  what 
/  made.    I  went  an'  married  beneath  me. 

"  The  idea  of  it !  A  smart  young  London 
gel  like  me,  as  could  earn  'er  two  shillin'  at 
the  pillar-makin'  any  day  she  liked  to  try — a 
smart-looking  gel  like  what  I  was  to  go  an' 
get  'erself  tied  up  to  a  country  bloke  like  'im. 
Such  a  cow-sperited  man,  too.  Good  job  'e 
ain't  'ome  now.  I  do  feel  like  givin'  'im  a 
slice  o'  my  mind  'sevenin',  I  do. 

"  An'  there  ain't  so  much  as  a  sink  nor  a 
tap  in  the  ole  ugly  'ouse  ! 

"  An'  my  mother's  got  the  dropsy.  Suppose 
she  was  to  be  took  off  sudden,  with  me  cooped 
up  like  a  prisoner  down  'ere  !  'Ow'd  we  be 
goin'  on  then,  young  fellar  ? 

"  If  Dudman  was  to  show  'is  ugly  face  in 
'ere  this  minute,  I  would  give  'im  such  a 
character  as  'e  wouldn't  never  dare  come 
'ome  nearer  nor  the  chicken-coop  no  more. 
Cow-sperited  fool !  When  I  was  courtin' 
wiv  'im  'e  seemed  to  'ave  some  ginger  in  'im. 
But  now  I  knowed  'im  all  these  years  I  see  my 
mistake.  Whatever  I  see  to  like  in  the  fellar 
/  do'  know.  Never  knowed  about  Ole 
Moore  in  them  days. 

"  Won't  I  'arf  tell  'im  so,  too,  when  the  fool 


Another  Mrs.  Tanqueray       155 

comes  'ome.  I  married  outer  me  class, 
that's  what  I  done.  An'  it's  time  'e  knowed 
about  it. 

"  Two  year  come  Easter  it  will  be  since 
last  I  wenter  London.  Seems  as  long  as  all 
the  years  since  I  was  two.  Often  go  there 
yeself,  I  s'pose,  young  fellar  ?  " 

I  told  her  that  I  was  that  very  morning 
come  from  the  town. 

All  she  said  was  **  R  !  "    But  it  sufficed. 

"  Ever  go  down  Walworth  way  ?  "  she 
asked,  a  little  later. 

"  Quite  often,"  I  said. 

Again  she  answered  "  R  !  "  And  then  she 
put  some  further  questions  to  me. 

Did  I  know  a  public-house  in  Walworth 
Road  which  was  called  the  Candy  Stick  ? 
And  Bill,  the  red-haired  bar  attendant,  what 
lorst  his  eye  through  sneering  at  the  Bible  ? 
And,  if  I  did  rejoice  in  that  acquaintanceship, 
could  I  tell  her  whether  this  martyr  in  the 
cause  of  Higher  Criticism  still  held  office  ? 
And  did  I  also  know  a  number  of  ladies  from 
the  pickle  factory  who  used  this  hostelry  ? 
And  the  Barker's  Alley  boys  who  also  used  it  ? 
And  did  I  ever  partake  of  fried  fish  and 
potatoes  as  prepared  and  vended  by  Macaroni 
Joe,  of   Newington   Butts  ?     And,  if  so,   I 


156  Cottage  Pie 

could  perhaps  inform  her  whether  Joe  had 
yet  grown  tired  of  that  squint-eyed  Jew  gel 
what  had  drove  his  lawful  wite  from  home  ? 
An*  what  price  Gatti's  Music  Hall  in  the 
Westminster  Bridge  Road  ?  And  Fred 
Tooney,  the  lion  of  comedians,  who  national- 
ised the  words  and  melody  of  that  surprising 
anthem  "  Never  Wash  the  Baby  in  the 
Sink"? 

"  R  me  !  On'y  to  think  of  it  all !  "  said 
Mrs.  Dudman.  And  Mrs.  Dudman  turned 
her  back  upon  me  in  order  to  view  the  land- 
scape. 

When  she  turned  round,  I  perceived  that 
the  winds  which  blew  from  that  quarter 
had  evidently  affected  her  voice,  for  there 
was  a  sort  of  a  creak  in  it. 

"  Time  when  I  was  a  nipper,"  said  Mrs. 
Dudman,  "  it  was  a  rare  game  amongst  us 
gels  to  get  makin'  plans  for  the  larks  we 
was  gointer  'ave  when  boardin'-out  time 
come  round  agen  an'  they  sent  us  to  the 
country.  Me  an'  Rosie  Perkis,  as  was  my 
inspecial  pal,  we  saved  up  our  bits  o'  ribbons 
an*  'a'pence  an'  that  for  months  before' and. 
And  if  ever  there  was  meat  for  dinner,  and  I 
got  to  dreamin*,  it  was  always  about  the 
fow's  an'  pigs  an'  that  like.  .  .  .  But  now  it's 


A7iother  Mrs.  Tanqueray       157 

all  turned  round  the  other  way,  you  see.  I 
married  out  o'  me  class,  you  see.  I  don't 
often  dream  these  days,  owin*  to  because  o' 
the  strong  air  on  the  'ill-side.  But  when  I  do 
get  dreamin' — I 

"  I'd  give  a  bit,"  pursued  the  lady,  after  a 
somewhat  lengthened  pause,  "I'd  give  a  bit  to 
go  out  wi'  Rosie  an'  them  pickle  gels,  an'  all  the 
boys  down  Noo  Cut.  I'd  give  a  bit  to  taste  a 
London  cabbidge,  too.  R  ! — an'  you  don't 
get  none  o'  them  full-flavoured  things  in  these 
parts  Uke  what  they  sells  you  at  'ome.  An* 
ever  you  noticed  the  way  things  smell  in 
London  of  a  summer's  night  ?  Banana  skins 
an'  that,  an'  the  fish  shops.  An'  the  blokes 
wiv  strawberry  barrers.  An'  the  sights  you 
see  !  All  them  'lectric  lights,  an'  the  great 
spikes  o*  fire  what  they  'angs  to  the  barrers, 
an'  men  fightin',  an'  gels  bein*  chivied,  an* 
the  perlice,  an'  the  boys'  brigades  wiv  their 
whistles,  an'  the  'buses,  an'  the  barrel- 
organs,  an'  orl  the  fellers  in  their  best  scarves, 
and  *arf  o*  them  wiv  marf-orgins.  And — 
and — nobody  to  talk  about  Ole  Moore  ?  " 

I  looked  at  Mrs.  Dudman ;  and  that 
which  I  saw  suggested  the  prudence  of 
looking  elsewhere.  So  I  looked  along  the  road, 
and  observed  a  joyless  fellow  with  a  healthy 


158  Cottage  Pie 

face,  who  came  slouching  forward.  He  wore 
the  look  as  of  a  puzzled,  a  somewhat  wonder- 
ing person ;  but  not  of  a  hopeless  or  a 
discontented  one.  And  there  was  a  bunch  of 
emphatic  onions  in  his  hand. 

**  Don't — don't  you  p-put  me  down  for — 
for  a  fool,  now,"  came  in  disjected  sentences 
from  the  woman  at  my  side.  "  Because  I 
ain't ;  and — and — that  is  'im  along — along 
the  road ;  and  I  must  get  'is  tea,  an' — an' 
I  forgot  the  bread,  an'  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  meself — grizzlin'  like  a  silly  kid,  an' — an' 
— an'  'e  can  cut  'is  dam  onions  'isself.  An' — 
an' — an' — an' 

"  'E  don't  mean  no  'arm,  really.  On'y  I 
merried  outer  me  class." 


XIX 

THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE 

It  is  said  that  Wilfered  was  found  upon  the 
usual  doorstep.  But  his  Httle  things  were  not 
pinned  up  with  diamond  brooches  ;  nor  was 
there  the  traditional  lock  of  golden  hair 
within  his  bosom,  nor  any  bank-notes  ad- 
hering to  his  petticoat.  The  records,  in  point 
of  fact,  do  not  credit  him  with  having  owned 
a  petticoat.  "  Sex  :  male,"  the  record  says  ; 
"  Age  (about)  :  one  year  ;  Name  :  unknown  ; 
Belongings  :  flannelette  shirt ;  Where  found  : 
steps  of  Pinker's  Brewery,  Salford  Lane, 
Shadwell." 

So  they  took  him  away  and  washed  him. 

And  they  fed  him  and  named  him.  And  the 
name  which  they  gave  to  him  was  Wilfered. 
This  was  subsequently  expanded ;  for  the 
infant  Wiltered  got  transported  in  the  usual 
manner  to  a  country  home.  They  sent  him 
into  Buckinghamshire  ("  boarding  out "  is 
the  technical  expression),  and  he  became  the 
foster-son  of  Frederick  Wye,  wheelwright, 
and  Grace  Const  an  tia  Wye,  the  latter' s  wife. 

159 


i6o  Cottage  Pie 

The  transaction  which  provided  Wilfered 
with  these  excellent  guardians  was,  nominally, 
a  matter  of  business.  Wilfered  was  conveyed 
into  the  country  of  the  Wyes  under  the 
guardianship  of  a  thin  young  lady  with  a 
charitable  expression  and  accompanied  by  a 
canvas  parcel  containing  three  of  everything. 
Frederick  Wye,  wheelwright,  walked  five 
miles  over  the  hills  to  meet  their  train,  attired 
in  his  velvet  waistcoat  and  the  amazing  brown 
hat  which  he  wore  to  chapel  on  Sundays.  And 
having  arrived  at  the  railway  station,  Wil- 
fered and  Wilfered' s  trousseau  was  given  into 
his  keeping,  as  also  the  sum  of  one  pound  and 
two  shillings  in  coin,  representing  Wilfered's 
board  and  lodging  for  one  month.  Having 
disposed  this  wealth  about  his  person  and 
having  signed  a  number  of  documents,  the 
technical  phraseology  of  which  represented 
about  as  much  to  his  mind  as  if  they  had  been 
written  in  Welsh,  Mr.  Wye  shook  hands  with 
the  thin  young  lady  and  filled  his  hat — the  hat 
— with  literature  issued  by  the  society  which 
she  represented.  And  then,  with  a  hat  full  of 
piety  and  his  arms  full  of  Wilfered  and 
Wilfered's  belongings,  he  walked  the  five 
miles  home  again. 

When  he  arrived  at  Cherry  Row,  which  was 


The  Greatest  of  These         i6i 

his  native  village,  Mrs.  Wye  came  out  to  meet 
him.  "  You  got  the  le'l  mossel,  thin  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Wye.  You  will  observe  that  her  first 
inquiry  did  not  concern  the  one-pound-two — 
a  fact  which  I  deem  to  be  significant. 

*'  I  got  him,  Mar,"  responded  Mr.  Wye.  He 
had  called  her  "  Mar  "  for  fourteen  years,  quite 
without  justification  ;  for,  to  use  Mr.  Wye's 
own  simile,  "she  be  barren  as  a  spinster." 

"  Pray,  now,"  declared  Mar,  when  Wilfered 
had  been  subjected  to  analysis.  "  Pray,  now. 
'Aht  be  ever  sich  a  mossel,  now !  Did  ever 
there  be  sich  a  mossel  ?  " 

"  He  do  'pear  pimmicky,  so  to  speak," 
assented  Mr.  Wye.  "  And  yet  the  le'l  beggar 
don't  'pear  so  fight  to  carry,  then.  He  lays 
heavy  on  the  arm,  somehow." 

"  Goo  lung  wi*  yew !  "  protested  Grace 
Constantia,  as  she  took  the  infant  from  him. 
"  'Aht  don't  weigh  no  consequence  whatever. 
'Aht  be  loight's  a  chicken.  'Eavy  on  the  arm, 
indeed  !  You  be  took  pimmicky  yeself,  I  do 
declare." 

"  Very  loikely,"  assented  the  dutiful  Wye. 
**  'Aht  be  warmish  'sarternoon,  what  we 
Sunday  weskits  an'  all.  .  .  .  Here  be  the 
money  what  the  lady  give  me,  an'  here  be  his 
le'l  what-nots  an'  here  be  a  parcel  o'  Sunday 


1 62  Cottage  Pie 

readin*  an'  sich.  An'  there'll  be  ladies  come 
round  to  see  as  we  do  fair  boi  *im,  an'  a  genel- 
man  will  bring  'is  boardin' -money  on  the  first 
of  every  month.  He  be  for  pap  an'  porridge, 
the  lady  tell  me.  An'  he  be  for  new-boiled 
eggs  and  le'l  sups  o'  milk.  And  he  be  for  con- 
stant washin'  and  a  separate  bed  and  the  top 
of  the  window  always  open  and — and — I  mis- 
rem'ber  any  more." 

"  The  idea  of  the  man  !  "  commented  Mrs. 
Wye.  "  To  set  out  an'  teach  a  woman  'ow  to 
moind  her  babby,  then." 

And  having  thus  rebuked  the  man's  pre- 
sumption, Mrs.  Wye  kicked  open  the  little 
criss-cross  gate  of  their  cottage  and  walked 
in,  pressing  Wilfered  close  to  her  fiat  bosom. 
Frederick  followed  her,  bearing  the  what-nots 
and  the  money  and  the  literature. 

They  closed  the  door  behind  them,  which 
was  unusual ;  and  when  some  minutes  later 
a  red-faced  gentleman  came  round  with  his 
pipe  to  talk  about  Frederick's  sunflowers,  he 
viewed  the  fastened  port  with  evident  as- 
tonishment. A  lusty  challenge  brought  forth 
Frederick — brought  him  out,  that  is  to  say, 
so  far  as  the  second  sunflower  on  the  right- 
hand  side  looking  from  his  doorstep.  Frede- 
rick was  stripped  to  his  shirt  and  wore  a 


The  Greatest  of  These  163 

business-like  expression.  His  unconventional 
appearance,  together  with  his  attachment  to 
the  doorstep,  made  it  obvious  that  the  Wyes 
were  not  receiving.  And  if  the  red-faced 
visitor  had  any  doubts  about  the  matter,  they 
were  speedily  dispelled.  For  Frederick  in- 
continently dismissed  him,  with  superabun- 
dant gesture.  "Come  round  o'  Saturday," 
cried  Frederick.  **  Busy  now.  We  be  for 
tittumvating  our  le'l  buy." 

So  Wilfered  was  coaxed  and  titumvated  into 
a  very  excellent  representation  of  healthy 
boyhood.  The  what-nots  had  ceased  to  be  an 
important  part  of  his  wardrobe  ere  Cherry 
Row  had  known  him  for  a  twelvemonth.  But 
they  served  him  in  a  subsidiary  capacity  for 
years  ;  and  he  had  celebrated  his  fifth  birth- 
day before  the  last  surviving  member  of  his 
original  outfit  was  discarded.  It  was  an 
interesting  garment,  which  originally  had 
been  three,  and  Grace  Constantia,  recognising 
the  impossibility  of  further  reinforcement, 
abandoned  it  with  sighs. 

For  the  remainder  of  this  story  you  must 
imagine  Wilfered  as  arrayed  in  a  constant 
succession  of  abbreviated  Fredericks. 

As  Wilfered  grew  taller,  his  breeches  be- 
came   correspondingly  shorter,   and  it  was 


164  Cottage  Pie 

necessary  to  repair  this  discrepancy,  a  feat 
which  Grace  Constantia  performed  by  means 
of  strips  collected  from  the  wardrobe  of 
Frederick.  Grace  Constantia  termed  these 
objects  "cuffs,"  and  the  process  of  expan- 
sion she  called  "  cuffing."  Every  imagin- 
able kind  of  fabric  was  laid  under  con- 
tribution to  supply  the  pressing  needs  of 
Wilfered ;  and  as  cuff  after  cuff  was  added  to 
his  trousers,  those  habiliments  assumed  pre- 
sently an  aspect  of  striped  splendour  most 
dazzling  to  the  eye. 

And  Wilfered  grew  and  grew.  It  was  as 
though  he  ran  a  race  with  the  cuffs.  And  he 
learned  to  play  cricket.  And  he  learned  to 
read  and  to  do  sums  and  to  take  his  cap  off  to 
the  gentry.  He  learned  also  to  use  a  spoke- 
shave  and  bend  a  tyre.  For  Frederick  Wye, 
wheelwright,  was  not  the  man  to  let  youth 
starve  for  want  of  any  knowledge  which  that 
accomplished  person  could  supply. 

Wilfered,  supposing  he  had  ever  troubled  to 
consider  of  such  matters,  must  have  owned 
himself  to  be  a  very  happy  boy.  There  was  no 
boy  of  his  own  age  in  the  village,  nor  had  ever 
been,  whom  he  could  not,  when  occasion 
demanded  such  action,  knock  down  and  roll 
on.    There  was  no  other  boy  in  the  village 


The  Greatest  of  These  165 

who  possessed  a  flower-garden  of  his  own  ;  a 
flower-garden,  moreover,  having  a  clump  of 
pinks  and  several  radishes  at  bloom  therein. 
There  was  likewise  no  other  boy  in  the  vicinity 
whose  father  had  been  wounded  in  the  Zulu 
War  and  who  could  exhibit  the  marks  every 
Saturday  night  to  an  admiring  family.  And 
what  other  boy  owned  a  tortoise  ?  And  what 
other  boy's  grandfather  had  a  cherry  orchard 
and  a  tricycle  ?  And  what  other  boy  could 
rival  Wilfered's  cuffings  ?  Finally — and  this 
was  undoubtedly  the  crowning  feature  of 
Wilfered's  superiority — ^what  other  boy  owned 
a  gentleman  ? 

Wilfered's  gentleman  was  an  object  of 
wonder  and  reverence  in  the  village.  He 
came  to  Wilfered's  cottage  on  the  first  day  of 
every  month  and  presented  Wilfered's  mother 
with  large  sums  of  money  and  Wilfered  with 
a  smile  and  a  pat  on  the  head  and  a  penny. 
He  was  the  kindest  and  most  punctual  old 
gentleman.  He  jingled  with  gold  and  crackled 
with  papers,  to  some  of  which  Wilfered's 
mother  would  attach  her  signature.  Wilfered 
would  look  forward  to  his  coming  for  days  in 
advance,  and  his  best  and  most  favourite 
dream  was  the  one  in  which  this  old  gentleman 
came  down  from  heaven  hanging  to  an  um- 


1 66  Cottage  Pie 

brella  (like  the  lady  on  Wilfered's  "  Margate  '* 
mug),  and  showered  pennies  on  everybody 
and  smiled  his  smile  and  crackled  his  papers 
and  crew  like  a  cock  and  vanished.  When- 
ever Wilfered  was  instructed  in  the  mysteries 
of  creation  (which  was  frequently)  and  visual- 
ised, as  children  do,  the  many  surprising  facts 
related  to  him,  he  would  always  imagine 
Jehovah  as  wearing  the  same  hat  and  the 
same  smile  and  the  same  whiskers  as  his 
"  gentleman." 

Wilfered  owned  some  ladies,  too ;  but  it 
cannot  truthfully  be  said  that  he  ranked  them 
also  among  the  amenities  of  his  existence. 
They  did  not  visit  him  so  often  as  the  gentle- 
man did ;  but  Wilfered  thought,  neverthe- 
less, that  they  visited  him  quite  often  enough. 
The  uncomfortable  fact  about  these  ladies 
was  their  curiosity.  It  was  of  the  most  con- 
suming kind,  and  manifested  itself  strangely, 
even  to  the  unbuttoning  of  Wilfered's  collar 
and  an  elaborate  scrutiny  of  the  ear  which  he 
forgot  to  wash  that  morning.  The  sense  of 
delicacy  did  not  even  restrain  them  from  ex- 
amining the  secrets  of  his  wardrobe. 

But  as  time  went  on  the  visits  of  these 
inquisitive  dames  became  less  frequent  and 
more  formal — so  formal,  indeed,  that  Wilfered 


The  Greatest  of  These         167 

was  able  to  contemplate  them  in  comparative 
calm.  And  one  of  the  ladies — the  grey  one 
who  squinted  rather — rendered  herself  almost 
popular  towards  the  end  of  the  story  by  pre- 
senting Wilfered  with  a  cricket  bat — a  second- 
hand and  rather  damaged  one,  but  yet  the 
real  thing,  with  a  real  splice. 

So  Wilfered,  being  then  in  his  fourteenth 
year,  smote  away  at  the  communal  string-ball 
with  zest  and  emphasis,  and  at  last,  one  even- 
ing, he  was  able  to  come  panting  home  with 
news  of  the  utmost  urgency. 

"  Mo'er  !  Mo'er  !  Oi  be  to  play  for  the 
vellage,  Mo'er,"  cried  Wilfered,  dancing  upon 
the  greensward  and  upon  a  new-washed  table- 
cloth which  his  "  mother  "  had  spread  there. 

"  What  be  that  Oi  yare  ?  "  Mr.  Wye  him- 
self came  out  of  his  workshed  to  swell  the 
audience. 

"  Oi  be  to  play  for  the  vellage,"  repeated 
Wilfered.  "  Oold  Gomm,  the  blacksmeth,  'e 
be  took  bad  of  'is  muscles  an'  he  be  to  goo  to 
Petterling,  'lung  of  the  'firmary.  And  young 
Bobby  Dell,  he  be  for  his  soldiering  with  the 
Milishey.  So  they  be  a  man  or  two  short,  so 
Oi  be  to  play,  and  the  next  match,  that  be 
Saturday  week,  and  moind  you  git  moi  shirt 
washed,  Mo'er !  " 


1 68  Cottage  Pie 

"  That  be  washed  this  mennit,  y'  onkid  le'l 
davil,  yew,  Gard  bless  yew !  "  responded 
Mo'er.  .  .  .  "But— ee!  Pray,  now !  'Aht'll 
be  rare  noos  for  yewr  genelman,  'aht  will, 
when  he  come  here  in  the  marnin'.  Oh,  pray, 
then,  to-morrer  be  his  marnin',  sure  'nuff. 
Confound  moi  garters,  then,  but  thaht'll 
startle  him." 

But  the  gentleman  wasn't  startled  after  all. 
The  boot  was  on  the  other  leg. 

When  Wilfered,  wet  with  cricket  practice, 
presented  himself  before  his  gentleman  to 
receive  the  customary  benediction  and  re- 
ward, it  was  to  find  that  worthy  person  smil- 
ing away  more  than  ever.  But  the  counte- 
nance of  Frederick  wore  an  expression  the 
reverse  of  smiling ;  and  it  was  a  passion  of 
pure  hysteria  with  which  Mo'er  embraced  the 
boy  as  he  entered.  "  Moi  le'l  lahd  ;  moi  le'l 
lahd  !  "  cried  Mo'er.    "  You  be  for  Canada." 

And  Wilfered,  who  was  of  an  age  when  the 
understanding  is  not  rapid,  answered  simply : 
"  Yes,  Mo'er." 

"  You  be  for  Canada  !  yew  poor  mossel," 
repeated  the  woman. 

"  Wait  for  a  answer,  Mo'er  ?  "  demanded 
Wilfered. 

At  this  the  woman  cried.     But  the  sim- 


The  Greatest  of  These  169 

plicity  of  Wilfered's  question  found  an  ap- 
preciative auditor  in  the  gentleman. 

"  There  !  there  !  my  lad,"  he  exclaimed, 
with  a  chuckle.  "  You'll  do.  Undoubtedly 
you'll  do.    Wait  for  an  answer.    Ha  !    Ha  !  " 

And  Frederick —  the  chapel-going  Frederick 
— came  out  from  his  place  within  the  shadow 
of  the  wall  and  stood  where  the  sunlight  fell 
upon  his  sombre  face.  "  The  davil  take  yew 
and  yewr  cursed  giggles,"  he  remarked  to  the 
gentleman.  ..."  Look  a-here,  now :  Oi  tell 
yew  wanst  for  all  as  thes  le'l  lahd,  yere, 
he  don't  be  for  no  Canada.  He  be  to  bide 
at  *oom,  now,  'lung  o*  me  and  'is  mother 
what  as  sewed  the  very  knickers  what  he 
stands  in.  And  if  'tis  the  money  what  your 
precious  s'ciety  be  lookin'  to — whoi,  I  got 
moi  bank-book  ready  to  be  looked  at,  an* 
they  shall  'ave  back  every  damned  penny 
ever " 

"  My  good  man,"  interpolated  Wilfered's 
gentleman,  smiling  more  blandly  than  ever, 
"  this  is  not  at  all  a  question  of  money. 
This  is  a  question  of  principle.  My  society  is 
the  legal  guardian  of  this  boy,  and  we  have 
arranged  for  his  departure  to  Canada  on  this 
day  week.  He  will  go  out  with  a  party  of 
other  lads,  numbering  fourteen  in  all,  and 


170  Cottage  Pie 

after  spending  six  months  upon  our  training- 
farm  in  the  State  of  Ontario  we  shall " 

"  Trainin'  -  fairrm  !  "  echoed  Frederick. 
"  What  be  he  wan  tin'  wi'  trainin'  fairrms  ? 
He  be  a  wheelwroight,  same's  'is  father. 
Oi  taught  the  lad  meself,  an'  Oi  taught  'im 
proper.  A  wheelwroight's  trade  that  be  as 
good  as  yare  and  theer  one." 

"  Quite  so,  my  friend  ;  quite  so,"  assented 
the  gentleman,  with  his  cordial  smile.  "  I 
don't  dispute  it  for  a  moment.  But  this,  you 
see,  as  I  said  before,  is  a  question  of  'principle. 
Our  society  is  most  strongly  opposed  to  any 
departure  from  principle.  We  never  relin- 
quish our  guardianship.  Hundreds  of  pro- 
posals exactly  similar  to  yours  reach  us  every 
year ;  but  we  always  refuse  to  entertain 
them.  The  rules  bear  hardly  in  individual 
cases,  I  will  admit ;  but,  ah,  the  principle, 
my  friend,  the  principle,  that  remains.  You 
have  my  sympathy  in  this  case — you  and 
your  good  wife  ;  but  that  is  all  the  comfort 
I  can  offer  you.  And,  really,  when  one  comes 
to  think  about  it,  have  you  really  so  much  to 
complain  of  ?  The  lad  is  a  smart  lad  ;  he  is 
certain  to  do  well  in  Canada  ;  he  will  doubt- 
less correspond  with  you  frequently,  and 
when — ah  ! — after  some  years  of  industry. 


The  Greatest  of  These  171 

he  is  able — ah  ! — to  indulge  in  the  luxury  of 
a  little  holiday,  you  will  be  able  to  welcome 
home  the  bronzed  and  altered  traveller.  The 
bronzed  and  altered  traveller.    Ha  !    Ha  !  " 

"  We  don't  want  no  damnation  travellers," 
explained  the  courteous  Frederick.  "  We 
want  our  le'l  lahd.  We  want  him  yare,  a- 
biding  '00m  wi'  us.  The  wheelwroight's 
trade,  thaht  be  so  good  as  yare  an'  theer  one. 
A  lahd  don't  starve  at  thaht.  An'  from 
arl  Oi  ever  read  an'  see  about  they  Colonies, 
there's  more'n  some  goes  'ungry  theer.  Goo 
long  wi*  yew,  mester.  Our  le'l  buy  theer,  he 
don't  be  for  no  Canadas." 

"  But  I'm  afraid  he  does  be  for  Canada," 
rejoined  the  gentleman,  smiling  more  pleas- 
antly than  ever.  **  You  have  no  legal  right 
whatever  in  the  boy — none  whatever  ;  he  has 
received  his  marching  orders,  and  we  shall 
see  that  he  obeys  them.  Kindly  see  that  he 
reports  himself  at  Walworth  Road  Head- 
quarters by  Wednesday  morning  next.  Good- 
day  to  you." 

The  mask  of  truculence  fell  suddenly 
away  from  Frederick.  '*  One  minute,  mester  ; 
oonly  one  minute,"  he  cried.  **  Won't  you 
give  the  lahd  another  month  ?  He  doon'l 
understand   the    meanin'    of    '  Canada,'    let 


172  Cottage  Pie 

alone  the  big  world  what's  afore  'im.  Won't 
you  give  the  lahd  another  month  at  '00m, 
'lung  of  us,  so's  we  can — so  we  can — we  can 
show  'im  the  pictures  an'  thaht  ?  " 

The  genial  gentleman  shook  his  head. 
**  A  question  of  principle,"  he  said. 

Then  Frederick,  walking  queerly,  like  a 
man  who  had  been  drinking,  crossed  over  to 
the  place  where  Wilfered  stood  in  silence  and 
wondered  at  it  all — this  heated  argument ; 
his  father's  anger ;  the  gentleman's  amuse- 
ment ;  his  mother's  tears.  "  Wilfered," 
said  Frederick,  **  you  be  to  live  in  Canada. 
Gard  halp  yew.  In  Canada,  where  'tis  alius 
snowing." 

"  But— but,"  expostulated  Wilfered,  "  Oi 
don't  want  to.  Oi — Oi  be  to  play  for  the 
vellage  on  thes  day  week.  Yes,  Oi  do  ;  Oi  be 
to  play  for  the  vellage." 

"  You  be  to  live  in  Canada,"  repeated 
Frederick.    "  Gard  halp  yew." 

It  may  not  exactly  have  been  good  cricket 
form ;  but  Wilfered  sought  the  arms  of 
Grace  Constantia. 

"  You  poor  le'l  mossel,  then ;  yew  poor, 
poor  mossel,"  cried  his  mother. 

And  the  smiling  gentleman  said  :  "  Dear 
me !  "    He  owned,  as  he  departed,  that  the 


The  Greatest  of  These         173 

situation  was  distressing.  "  But,"  he  added, 
"  we  must  support  the  principle  !  " 

As  he  closed  the  little  criss-cross  gate  and 
turned  his  back  upon  the  sunflowers,  he  heard 
the  voice  of  Wilfered  lifted  up  in  protest. 

"  Oi  won't.  Oi  won't.  .  .  .  Don't  ever 
yew  lat  them,  Mo'er,"  cried  the  voice  of 
Wilfered.  .  .  .  "  Oi  be  to  play  for  the  vellage, 
Mo'er !  " 


XX 

THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FRINGE 

I  MET  her  upon  the  high  road,  near  by  Blow- 
field,  which  is  in  Sussex. 

She  was  forty  years  old,  at  a  venture.  She 
had  lots  of  mouth  and  a  salmon-coloured  face 
and  a  pretence  of  a  nose  and  small,  watery 
eyes.  All  these  amenities  were  built  up  upon 
a  triple  foundation  of  chin,  which  was  well 
matched  by  an  exceeding  amplitude  of  bosom 
and  waist. 

She  sat,  in  the  company  of  a  tin  can  and  a 
bundle,  on  a  bank  by  the  roadside,  and  she 
had  taken  off  her  boots,  and  was  nursing 
them.  By  way  of  head-gear,  she  wore  a  man's 
"  bowler  "  hat,  with  its  brim  flattened  out. 
Beneath  this  hat  was  a  straight,  damp  fringe  ; 
and  from  behind  the  fringe  her  two  little  eyes 
looked  vaguely  forth,  and  seemed  to  splutter 
and  flicker  like  bad  night-lights. 

As  I  drew  near  to  her  she  waved  a  boot  at 
me,  and  when  I  came  nearer  still  she  spoke  to 
me,  saying,  quite  unaffectedly  : 

**  Cheero,  ole  lovely  !    Got  a  fag  ?  " 

174 


The  Lady  with  the  Fringe      175 

Such  expressions  of  pure,  womanly  affec- 
tion, meeting  one  suddenly  on  a  rather  narrow 
road,  naturally  confuse  one  ;  and  scarcely 
realising  the  gravity  of  the  act,  I  gave  this 
lady  one  of  my  last  two  cigarettes. 

"  Tar ! "  said  she.  "  Got  a  match,  ole  dear  ?  " 

Matches  also  I  gave  to  her  ;  and  she  said  : 
*'  I  will  keep  the  box,  ole  sweet'eart.  Got 
anuver  fag  fur  the  road  ?  " 

The  other  "  fag  "  was  my  last  "  fag,"  and 
unless  you  are  a  Bible  character,  you  don't. 
I  didn't. 

**  No  more  cigarettes  left !  "  echoed  the 
lady  with  the  fringe.  "  Well,  well,  ole  Beauty, 
I'll  take  tuppence." 

"  And  I,  if  you  please,  ma'am,"  quoth  your 
servant,  "  will  take  a  seat." 

She  very  courteously  removed  the  bundle, 
and  I  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  And  now,  my  love,"  said  the  lady  with 
the  fringe,  addressing  me  by  means  of  a  rather 
heavy  elbow,  "  you'll  be  givin*  me  that 
tuppence — ^heh  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  the  money  f or  ?  "  I 
bluntly  asked  her. 

"  Beer,"  she  bluntly  answered. 

"  And  are  you  really  very  poor  and  needy?" 
I  asked,  eying  the  bundle. 


176  Cottage  Pie 

"  That  bundil  there  need  never  worry  you, 
my  angel,"  declared  the  lady.  "  To  tell  you 
candid,  dearie,  all  what  that  ole  bundil  there 
'as  got  inside  of  it  is  one  red  petticoat,  one 
pair  stays,  one  'arf  cabbidge,  an'  me  merried 
lines." 

"  Must  be  a  big  half-cabbage,"  I  ventured 
to  suggest,  again  examining  the  bundle. 

The  lady  blinked  at  me  sweetly.  "  Pore 
lad :  ye're  teasin*,  ain't  you,  my  precious  ?  " 
she  observed.  "  Think  I'm  lyin'  to  you,  don't 
you,  darling  ?  Then  I'll  tell  you  a  little 
secret,  pretty.  That  lumpy  part  of  the  bundil, 
the  part  what  looks  a  lot,  like,  the  part  what 
is  all  knob — that  part  of  the  bundil  is  merried 
lines,  ole  sweet. 

"  Of  course,"  she  added,  rather  hotly, 
having  closely  examined  my  countenance, 
**  you  can  please  yeself  about  believin'  me. 
On'y  I  ain't  the  sort  of  lady  to  sit  down  and 
be  called  a  liar  be  anybody :  in  specially  not 
be  strangers,  no  matter  'ow  funny  they  are  to 
look  at.  I  ain't  annoyed  with  you,  Archibald  ; 
but  I  might  be." 

**  That  movement  of  my  mouth,"  I  assured 
her,  "  was  purely  muscular." 

*'  Try  me  in  'Ebrew  :  I  dunno  no  Dutch," 
responded  the  lady. 


The  Lady  with  the  Fringe      177 

"  At  the  same  time,"  I  continued,  "  one 
can't  help  thinking  that  it  would  take  an 
awful  lot  of  marriage  lines  to  fill  so  big  a  knob 
as  that." 

"  Well— an'  what  of  it  ?  "  demanded  the 
lady  with  the  fringe. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"Sit  still!  "said  the  lady.  .  .  .  "Anybody 
*d  think,  to  'ear  you  prattle,  as  a  person  could, 
only  be  merried  once  in  this  world.  'Ow 
many  lots  o'  merried  lines  do  you  suppose  I 
got,  now  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Don't  wiggle  and  don't  waggle,"  said  the 
lady  ;  "  but  'ave  another  good  look  at  that 
knob." 

I  did  as  I  was  ordered  to  do,  but  the 
process  helped  me  little.  "  Might  be  any 
number !  "  was  all  that  I  felt  in  honour  able 
to  say. 

"  Well,  Bert,"  said  the  lady  with  the  fringe, 
"  I  can't  truthfully  say  as  ever  I  bin  to  the 
troubil  o'  countin*  'em  ;  but  this  I  can  tell  you 
— ^there's  a  coal-box  full !  " 

Having  exclaimed  at  this  surprising  state- 
ment, I  made  bold  to  inquire  (hoping  she 
would  pardon  my  curiosity)  whatever  had 
become  of  all  her  husbands  ! 


178  Cottage  Pie 

The  lady  guffawed  in  a  hearty  and  unaf- 
fected manner.  "  You'll  be  the  deaf  of  me, 
ole  Treasure/'  she  declared ;  "  you  will,  reely. 
Whatever  'as  become  of  all  my  'usbands  ? 
Did  ever  anybody  'ear !  You  couldn't  beat 
that,  not  on  a  Good  Friday !  Go'  bless  my 
soul,  Ronald  ;  what  do  you  take  me  for  ?  I 
couldn't  answer  that  question  no  more  than 
the  Queen  o'  Spain.  1  couldn't  tell  you  what's 
become  of  the  ole  dears. 

"  I  couldn't  make  a  guess  at  it  even ! 
There's  some  of  'em  'ere,  I  make  no  doubt, 
and  some  of  'em  there.  They  come  an'  go,  old 
love  ;  they  come  an'  go. 

"  Some  was  nice  an'  some  was  nasty,  some 
was  good  an'  some  was  lively.  An'  one  on  'em 
was  a  powit.    There  was  all  sorts. 

"  But  when  you  arst  me  what's  become  of 
'em,  when  you  arst  me  where  they  are  or  how 
they  are  or  what  they  are — well,  then,  you 
arst  a  riddel.  Lor'  love  you,  Reginald,  ye're 
aunt  don't  know,  nor  ye're  aunt  don't  care. 
What  I  says  is  this  :  There's  as  good  men  on 
the  road  as  ever  went  orf  of  it." 

I  acquiesced  in  this  generalisation,  and  the 
lady  with  the  fringe  sat  silent,  chewing  at  her 
cigarette.  Presently,  after  bestowing  upon 
me   a  shy  smile,   she  leaned  forward  and 


The  Lady  with  the  Fringe      179 

thumped  me  violently  between  the  shoulder- 
blades. 

"  Tell  you  what,  ole  Treasure,"  she  ex- 
claimed. **  I've  'arf  a  mind  or  more  to  merry 
you !  Seems  to  me  I  bin  a  widder  long 
enough.  You  are  get  tin'  good  money,  I 
daresay  ?  " 

Wealth  is,  of  course,  a  purely  comparative 
expression.  Perhaps  I  get  good  money  enough 
from  the  standpoint  of  frugal  bachelorhood, 
but  from  no  possible  monetary  standpoint 
am  I  fit  to  be  regarded  as  an  eligible  suitor 
for  the  hand  of  a  widowed  lady.    I  said  so. 

"Well,  well,  Oswald,"  replied  the  lady 
with  the  fringe,  "  money  ain't  everythink. 
There's  many  a  lovin'  'eart  'as  warmed  itself 
on  purridge.  I  got  enough  cold  toke  of  one 
sort  and  another  left  in  that  bundil  fur  the 
two  on  us.  An'  we  can  save  money  over  the 
merried  lines ;  one  o*  the  old  ones  can  easy 
be  altered  to  fit.  An*  we  will  go  'oppin* 
together,  an'  we  will  get  converted  an'  be 
lent  a  cottage  be  the  vicar.  I'm  on  me  way 
to  the  'oppin'  now.  There's  rare  fun  at  the 
'oppin'. 

"  So  now  then,  my  angel,"  pursued  the 
lady,  "  what  do  you  say  ?  "  She  carefully 
divided  her  fringe  in  its  thickest  part  and 


i8o  Cottage  Pie 

beamed  upon  me  blindingly  from  both  little 
eyes. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  I  began,  hoping  to 
construct  a  courtly  speech,  "  your  kindness 
and — ah — amiability  and — ah — your  kind- 
ness and  amiability — are — are " 

"  Don't  make  a  song  about  it,  cocky," 
interpolated  the  fair  suitor.  **  Cut  the  fancy 
work  and  talk  English.  Don't  mind  me. 
Neether  you  nor  your  big  brother  could  put 
me  off  me  vittles.  So  don't  *um  and  don't  'ar. 
If  you  ain't  agreeable,  leave  off  fidgetin*  and 
say  so,  plain." 

I  said  it,  plainly. 

"  Well,  well,"  murmured  the  lady  with  the 
fringe.  "  There's  as  good  men  on  the  road  as 
ever  went  orf  of  it.  That's  my  motter.  So 
you  ain't  a-gointer  merry  me  ?  " 

"  I  ain't." 

"  But  you  are  gointa  gimme  that  tuppence, 
ain't  you,  Percy  ?  "  said  the  lady. 

The  situation  had  become  delicate.  It 
seemed  to  me  that,  in  the  circumstances,  a 
chivalrous  gentleman  could  do  no  less  than 
hand  over  any  loose  pence  which  his  pocket 
might  happen  to  contain.  With  that  aloof- 
ness from  futile  sentiment  which  formed  so 
striking  a  feature  of  her  character,  the  lady 


The  Lady  with  the  Fringe      i8i 

with  the  fringe  placed  my  offering  upon  her 
open  palm,  and  inspected  it  critically. 

"  One — two — three — an' — a — 'arf — four — 
fi'pence  'apenny !  "  she  proclaimed.  *'  Couldn't 
you  spring  anuver  'apenny,  Mr.  Gluckstein, 
and  bring  it  up  to  the  even  tanner  ? 

"  You'll  be  blowed  if  you  will  ?  All  right, 
young  feller,  I'll  be  blowed  if  I  care." 

The  lady  with  the  fringe  gathered  the  coins 
together,  and  placed  them  in  an  old  red  hand- 
kerchief which  appeared  to  be  performing  the 
duties  of  a  garter. 

Then  she  stood  up  and  plucked  a  harebell, 
and  chewed  thoughtfully  at  its  stalk.  "  'Ot, 
ain't  it  ?  "  she  puffed,  straightening  the  fringe 
as  she  squinted  up  an  appalling  vista  of  sun- 
baked road.  "  'Ow  many  miles  to  the  Beer, 
Sir  Garnet  ?  " 

About  two,  I  thought. 

"  That's  done  easy  enough  when  you've 
fi'pence  'apenny  in  ye're  stocking,"  said  the 
lady.  "  Glad  as  I  met  you,  ole  dove.  I  bin 
stone-broke  since  yesterday.  All  I  got  tucked 
away  when  I  met  you  was  a  pawnticket  and 
some  'air-curlers." 

"  Some  what  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  'Air-curlers,  dearie — fur  me  fringe." 

I  regarded  the  straight,  damp  thing  which 


1 82  Cottage  Pie 

obscured  her  eyelets — and  wondered.  I  looked 
at  the  battered  man's  hat,  the  fragmentary 
old  sack  of  a  garment,  the  hopeless  bundle, 
the  tin  can — and  I  wondered.  I  looked  at  her 
ridiculous  face  and  the  bootless  feet,  and  still 
I  wondered.  It  struck  me  then  how  queer  a 
thing  it  is  to  be  a  woman.  The  sensation 
must  be  complicated  -past  expression. 

"  What  is  it,  WiUie  ?  "  cried  the  lady  sud- 
denly, as  she  pounced  down  upon  something 
white  which  lay  on  the  grass  by  my  side. 

"  That  is  my  pocket-handkerchief,"  I  said. 

"  ril  keep  'im,  ole  dear,"  said  the  lady  with 
the  fringe.  "  It'll  do  fur  a  keepsake.  .  .  . 
It'll  fetch  a  copper,  too.  You  ain't  agoin',  ole 
sweet  ?  "  she  continued,  as  I  rose  up,  gripping 
my  handbag  very  tightly  ;  for  it  occurred  to 
me  that  I  might  as  well  keep  that. 

"  Yes,"  said  I.  "  I'm  going  now.  I've  got 
a  train  to  catch." 

"  Then,"  announced  the  lady  with  the 
fringe,  "  I'm  comin'  with  you,  to  kerry  the 
bag." 

This  was  just  what  I  had  feared.  I  re- 
treated a  pace  or  two  ;  but  the  lady  with  the 
fringe  pursued  me.  There  was  distinct  pur- 
pose in  her  two  little  eyes,  and  the  suggestion 
of  a  flush  seemed  to  glimmer  through  the  dust 


The  Lady  with  the  Fringe      183 

upon  her  cheek.  "  I'm  *avin'  that  bag,  young 
man,"  she  said.    And  she  had  it. 

She  collected  the  bundle  and  the  tin  can, 
and  put  on  her  boots.  I  awaited  develop- 
ments with  anxiety.  My  expectation  was 
that  she  would  bid  me  an  affectionate  fare- 
well and  depart  her  ways,  leaving  me  to  take 
what  steps  I  chose  for  the  recovery  of  the  bag. 

But  I  maligned  the  lady.  She  was  not  a 
luggage  thief.  "  Push  on,  my  precious,"  she 
said.    "  I'm  carryin'  ye're  bag  for  you." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  I  protested.  "  You  have 
enough  to  carry  of  your  own.  And  you  are 
yearning  to  drink  up  that  fivepence  ha'penny. 
The  hour  for  parting  has  arrived." 

"  I'm  kerryin'  the  bag  for  you,  Algernon," 
said  the  lady  with  the  fringe.  "  And  if 
you  argue,  I  shall  set  about  you.  Push  on, 
sonny." 

So  I  pushed  on ;  and  the  lady  with  the 
fringe,  perspiring  heavily  and  grunting,  but 
full  of  conversation,  laboured  along  by  my 
side.  She  told  me  all  about  the  hopfields  and 
her  husbands,  and  discussed,  with  many  apt 
descriptive  touches,  the  comparative  dis- 
comforts of  all  the  gaols  in  England. 

And  in  reply  to  all  my  protests,  she  an- 
swered thus :    ''  Ki  am   kerryin'   the   bag. 


184  Cottage  Pie 

young  feller.  Don't  argue.  Used  to  kerryin* 
things,  I  am." 

When  we  got  to  a  point  within  hail  of  my 
destination,  she  stopped  and  sat  down  by  the 
roadside,  laid  by  the  bundle  and  can,  and  once 
more  took  off  her  boots.  Then  she  gave  me 
back  my  bag. 

**  I'll  rest  me  yere,"  she  said.  "  You  can 
do  what's  over  on  ye're  lonesome.  'Tain't 
fur.  When  I'm  rested  a  bit,  I'll  git  back  to 
where  we  started  from.  What  about  that 
'apenny,  dear  boy  ?  " 

I  found  a  little  more  money  for  her,  and 
thanked  her,  and  turned  to  depart.    But 

"  You  ain't  agoin'  off  like  that !  "  she  cried. 
"  Without  so  much  as  a  kiss  for  auntie  ?  " 

In  stepping  hastily  backwards,  I  very  nearly 
put  my  foot  in  a  wasps'  nest. 

The  lady  with  the  fringe  strode  up  to  me. 
"  Proud,  are  you  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Then  take 
that,  you  monkey-faced  baboon.'* 

I  took  it,  and  can  feel  the  tingle  yet. 


XXI 
THE  CANNIBALS 


I 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly — the  Eyetalian 
lady  she  is  called,  in  all  good  faith  by  her 
Sussex  neighbours — arose  one  morning  in 
complete  forgetfulness  of  the  season. 

She  rang  her  spiteful  little  hand-bell  seven 
times  before  the  clock  struck  eight.  She  rang 
for  her  letters  ;  she  rang  for  tea  ;  she  rang 
for  water.  She  rang  indignantly  to  send  the 
tea  away  because  it  was  not  hot  enough,  and 
again  to  complain  of  the  water,  which  was  too 
hot,  and  again  to  complain  of  noises  from  the 
kitchen — noises  incidental  to  the  preparation 
of  her  breakfast — and  yet  again  she  rang  in 
order  to  remark  how  badly  that  repast  had 
been  prepared.  Her  final  and  most  insistent 
summons  was  the  prelude  to  certain  cogent 
and  comprehensive  utterances  on  the  subject 
of  menial  incompetence,  capitalist  martyrdom, 
the  smell  from  the  scullery,  more  noises  from 
the  kitchen,  cats  on  the  roof,  doors  being  left 
open,  stair-rods  unpolished — everything  ! 

185 


1 86  Cottage  Pie 

Ellen  Mary  Pearce  listened  to  it  all  with 
downcast  eyes  and  an  expression  of  wrapt 
indifference.  You  would  have  supposed  that 
my  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly  bored  her  dread- 
fully. 

But  Ellen  Mary*s  manner  of  jabbing  at  the 
stair-rods  when  she  subsequently  faced  those 
dumb  tyrants  was  not  exactly  the  manner  of 
boredom.  The  hot,  unwilling  tears  which 
splashed  into  her  box  of  brass-rags  were  not 
exactly  tears  of  boredom.  "  Think  I  care  ? 
Not  me?"  muttered  Ellen  Mary,  jabbing  at 
the  stair-rods  till  her  nails  bled. 

If  Ellen  Mary  conducted  herself  like  a  very 
angry  little  girl,  you  are  not  to  wonder  at  it. 
For  really  it  is  an  angering  thing  to  be  young 
and  juicy  for  other  people's  benefit. 

The  other  people  were :  (i)  My  Aunt 
Elizabeth  Pengelly  ;   (2)  'Er. 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly  one  could  put 
up  with,  Ellen  thought.  She  had  her  bad 
mornings,  like  this  morning,  when  her  black 
eyes  burnt  holes  in  you,  and  her  lean  frame 
and  yellow  skin  and  dusty  hair  were  un- 
pleasant objects  to  be  permanently  estab- 
lished behind  a  bell  which  never  left  off 
ringing.  But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  my 
Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly  did  not  always  do 


The  Cannibals  187 

thus.  She  was  often,  Ellen  would  tell  you, 
"  very  ladylike  "  ;  nay,  more — she  was  often 
very  gay — in  that  queer  Eyetalian  manner  of 
hers.  Of  course,  it  was  true  that  she  spoke 
very  fast  and  always  looked  through  you,  and 
that  she  was  always  saying  strange  and  un- 
expected things  which  were  hard  upon  the 
understanding  of  a  coppersmith's  youngest 
daughter ;  but  in  spite  of  these  vices,  one 
might  endure  my  Aunt  Elizabeth.  She  seemed 
to  have  a  kind  heart — of  its  queer  Eyetalian 
sort.    But  'Er  ! 

Oh  my  goodness — *ER  ! 

No  girl  could  stand  'Er.  If  you  was  to  cut 
yourself  into  a  hundred  million  pieces  you 
couldn't  satisfy  *Er.  If  you  was  to  do  a 
thousand  things  at  once  and  die  at  'Er  feet  in 
doing  them,  she  would  still  find  work  for  your 
immortal  soul  to  do  ;  she  would  not  even  turn 
from  her  stockpot,  but  stoop  and  sniff  and 
grumble  as  always,  and  threaten  your  stiffen- 
ing corpse  with  the  old,  old  threat  of  **  telling 
the  missus,"  and  wonder  where  you  were 
dragged  up,  and  what  the  girls  of  to-day  were 
good  for.  And  when  they  buried  you  she 
would  stand  over  the  grave  and  recite  her 
endless  monologue,  beginning  with  the  words 
"  When  /  first  went  to  service." 


1 88  Cottage  Pie 

Whenever  Ellen  Mary  thought  about  'Er, 
she  had  to  get  up  and  shake  herself.  She  did 
so  now,  leaning  out  of  the  landing  window. 

She  looked  out  into  the  little  garden  which 
fronted  her  mistress's  cottage.  She  watched 
the  ill-bred  blackbirds  as  with  shrill  cries 
they  darted  in  and  out  of  the  under-part  of 
the  hedges,  pursuing  each  other  with  rough 
caresses  like  badly-brought-up  boys  and  girls. 
She  watched  old  Mr.  Rummery,  the  jobbing 
gardener,  as  he  slowly  untied  a  shoot  which 
he  had  tied  up  to  the  rose-arch  last  week, 
and  then,  with  infinite  pains,  retied  it.  She 
perceived,  with  the  understanding  which  is 
natural  to  a  country  girl,  that  he  was  pre- 
serving the  bloom  of  his  vigour  for  the  lawn- 
mowing  season.  In  the  meantime,  he  was 
making  a  careful  and  conscientious  job  of  the 
rose-arch. 

Suddenly  Ellen's  attention  was  directed  to 
the  garden  gate  by  a  low  whistle.  She  looked 
and  beheld,  a  little  beyond  the  gate,  a  dirty, 
happy  little  girl — a  rebel,  a  mutineer,  like  the 
buds  and  song-birds  which  were  breaking  out 
all  round  her. 

"Whoi,  'tis  Gert  Miller!"  cried  Ellen 
Mary.    **  Where  you  bin  ?  " 

"  I  bin  among  the  daffodils,"  replied  the 


The  Cannibals  189 

girl  behind  the  gate.  *'  Down  in  the  Tenter 
Mead.  Look  !  "  She  held  up  a  great  armful 
of  sunshine. 

"  Oh  dear,  but  you  beant  *arf  muddied  !  " 
commented  Ellen  Mary. 

The  little  girl  behind  the  sunshine  laughed 
defiantly.  "  Oi  doon't  care/'  she  said.  "  Oi 
run  away.  Moi  oold  aunt  she  woon't  'arf 
carry  on  whin  Oi  git  back." 

"  Hoo  !    Hoo  !  "  cried  EUen  Mary. 

"  Hee  !  Hee  !  "  cheeped  the  connoisseur  in 
sunshine. 

It  was  doubtless  an  excellent  joke.  But 
while  the  young  ladies  were  enjoying  it,  my 
Aunt  EUzabeth  Pengelly  had  rung  her  spite- 
ful little  bell.  She  had  rung  her  bell  three 
times.  She  had  rung  it  for  her  garden  boots 
and  her  big  oak  stick,  having  suddenly  re- 
membered that  this  was  Mr.  Rummery's 
morning.  My  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  desirous 
of  conveying  to  Mr.  Rummery  her  assurance 
that  what  he  had  done  to  the  pea-bed  last 
week  had  in  nowise  inconvenienced  it,  and 
her  hope  that  the  feat  in  question  had  occa- 
sioned him  no  fatigue. 

Having  received  no  answer  to  her  summons 
and  having  been  curious  to  know  the  reason 
why — besides  being  eager  for  the  battle  with 


IQO  Cottage  Pie 

Mr.  Rummery — my  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly 
burst  out  of  her  bedroom  on  to  the  landing. 
There  she  beheld  Miss  Ellen  Mary  Pearce. 

Ellen  drew  in  her  breath  and  ducked  her 
eyes  and  waited. 

But  that  for  which  she  waited  did  not 
come. 

Through  the  open  window  my  Aunt  EHza- 
beth  Pengelly  had  seen  a  piece  of  dappled 
sky,  and  the  blackbirds,  and  Mr.  Rummery, 
and  the  buds  around  him,  amongst  which 
there  was  a  mutiny,  a  breaking  out. 

She  also  saw  the  dirty  face  of  Miss  Miller 
and  the  bundle  of  sunshine  in  her  arms. 

And  like  the  queer  Eyetalian  woman  which 
she  is,  my  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly  began  to 
smile. 

II 

To  the  surprise  of  Ellen  Mary,  my  Aunt 
Elizabeth  Pengelly  returned  to  her  bedroom 
without  offering  any  comment  upon  the  un- 
finished appearance  of  the  stair-rods.  Nor  did 
she  raise  this  dreaded  subject  when  Ellen 
Mary  brought  her  the  garden  boots  and  stick. 
But  when  Ellen  Mary  had  returned  to  the 
stair-rods,  my  Aunt  Elizabeth  called  her  back 
and  uttered  a  strange  speech.    She  said  ; 


The  Cannibals  191 

"  I  don't  think  the  stair-rods  really  matter. 
You  had  better  go  out  and  get  some  daffodils." 

Then,  while  Ellen  Mary  gasped  and  won- 
dered, my  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly  put  on 
her  queer,  big  garden  boots,  clapped  an  old 
felt  hat  upon  her  head,  grasped  the  oak 
stick,  and  stumped  downstairs  into  the 
garden. 

Out  in  the  garden,  Mr.  Rummery  was  still 
temporising  with  the  rose  shoots.  The  noisy 
blackbirds  still  played  "  I  spy  "  in  and  out  of 
the  hedges ;  rebellion  among  the  buds  was 
still  proceeding  vigorously ;  the  birds  still 
shouted  their  tremendous  songs  of  liberty ;  and 
three  Persian  kittens  (whose  mother  didn't 
know)  were  pursuing  the  high  Adventure 
among  green  shoots  of  Pampas  grass,  yards 
and  yards  away  from  the  family  sugar-box.  ; 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly  gazed  at  these 
multivious  phenomena  with  a  thoughtful  eye, 
and,  quite  unmindful  of  her  purpose  in  visiting 
the  garden,  passed  by  Mr.  Rummery  with  a 
mere  nod,  and  walked  out  of  her  little  green 
gate  on  to  the  high  road. 

A  little  distance  up  the  road  there  is  another 
small  green  gate  (belonging  to  somebody  else's 
lonely  aunt),  and  at  this  gate  stood  young 
Miss  Miller  with  her  sunshine.    She  had  found 


192  Cottage  Pie 

another  Ellen  Mary  with  whom  to  hold  dis- 
course. 

My  Aunt  EUzabeth  Pengelly  quickened  her 
pace.  But  before  she  could  catch  up  to  the 
daffodils  they  had  run  away.  At  another  gate 
— a  shabby,  ramshackle  affair — still  farther 
up  the  road,  my  Aunt  Pengelly  found  them 
again.  She  found  also  Miss  Anne  Miller, 
Gertie's  aunt. 

Miss  Anne  Miller  was  addressing  some  home- 
truths  to  her  niece.  "  You  be  a  worthless  gad- 
about ;  that's  what  you  be,"  said  Miss  Anne 
Miller.  *'  There's  no  trustin*  you  at  all.  What 
be  yere  poor  ole  grannie  to  do,  then,  when  you 
go  racin'  orf  into  the  medders  along  after 
nonsense,  and  me  got  to  do  your  jobs  and  no- 
body to  give  the  pore  ole  lady  'er  breakfas'  ? 
Leave  they  mucky  blooms  where  they  lie  and 
git  along  insoide  and  look  to  your  pore  ole 
grannie  ;   I  are  seen  to  yeur  work." 

"  What  beautiful  daffodils  ;  are  they  really 
wild  ones  ?  "  said  the  voice  of  my  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth, as  the  form  of  Gertrude  withdrew  into 
the  privacy  of  a  wash-house. 

"  She  say  they  be,"  responded  Miss  Miller, 
curtseying  briefly.  **  The  pudden-faced  wil- 
ful le'l  thing — she  run  away  at  eight  o'clock 
this  marnin'  and  beant  come  back  till  now. 


The  Cannibals  193 

And  'er  pore  ole  gran' ma  waitin'  to  be  washed: 
for  I  couldn't  leave  the  'ouse-work." 

"  At  any  rate,"  suggested  my  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth, "  your  bad  little  niece  has  played  truant 
to  some  purpose.  Aren't  they  splendid  daffo- 
dils ?  " 

Miss  Miller  expressed  by  a  gurgle  that  which 
could  not  otherwise  be  expressed  without 
profanity. 

"  I  beant  one  to  take  much  notice  of  they 
sort  o'  tackle,"  she  said.  "  When  I  be  *er  age, 
maids  was  kept  too  busy  to  spend  their 
marnin's  daffydilling.  When  I  be  Gert's  age 
there  weren't  no  aunt  atome  to  share  the 
work.  I  'ad  to  mind  *ouse  and  mind  father, 
and  mind  everything,  as  well  as  mind  '^r." 

'Er  in  this  case  was  Miss  Miller's  mother. 
My  Aunt  Elizabeth  reflected,  with  a  little 
shudder,  that  Anne  had  indeed  been  minding 
her  mother  for  many  years.  It  was  absurd  to 
suppose  that  Anne  had  ever  been  so  young  as 
Gertie  ;  but  my  aunt  reflected  that  she  her- 
self had  lived  next  door  but  one  to  Anne  for 
nearly  twenty  years,  and  that  at  the  com- 
mencement of  that  period  Anne  had  looked 
less  old.  But  even  when  my  aunt  first  knew 
her,  Anne  had  been  "  minding  "  her  mother 
for  an  incalculable  period. 


194  Cottage  Pie 

**  These  young  girls  of  to-day/'  said  Miss 

Miller,  "  they  be " 

"  And  how  is  your  poor  mother,"  inter- 
rupted my  Aunt  Elizabeth.  She  saw  no 
reason  for  listening  to  Anne's  conversation. 

"  About  the  same  as  usual,"  answered 
Anne.    "  You  kin  see  'er  if  you  want  to." 

With  these  graceful  words  Miss  Miller  con- 
ducted my  Aunt  Elizabeth  to  the  wash-house 
door,  which  she  pushed  open  with  her  knee. 
The  wash-house  was  filled  with  steam,  arising 
from  some  cabbages  and  some  blankets  which 
were  being  boiled  therein. 

When  the  air  which  came  in  through  the 
open  doorway  had  scattered  some  of  the  mists, 
my  Aunt  Elizabeth  perceived  Anne's  mother, 
who  was  being  rapidly  and  violently  towelled 
by  Gertie,  her  granddaughter. 

Anne's  mother  was  a  perfectly  imbecile  old 
lady,  of  extreme  age.  She  sat  in  a  high-backed 
chair,  to  which  Anne's  brother,  now  a  police- 
sergeant,  retired,  had  in  the  year  1880  affixed 
some  rough  wooden  wheels.  These  wheels 
still  held,  though  they  had  of  late  shown  signs 
of  weakness.  But  Anne  was  loath  to  incur  the 
expense  of  new  ones,  for  as  she  would  explain 
to  visitors,  gently  patting  her  mother's  head 
as  she  spoke — **  there  beant  no  knowing  when 


The  Cannibals  195 

she'll  choke  out.  .  .  .  Poor  soul,  she  be  that 
eager  for  'er  vittles." 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly,  suppressing 
another  little  shudder,  stood  in  the  door- 
way and  looked  at  Anne's  mother.  Anne's 
mother  stared  straight  before  her  into  the 
steam. 

On  being  beckoned  to  by  Annie,  my  Aunt 
Elizabeth  walked  forward.  Miss  Miller,  seiz- 
ing one  of  the  lifeless  arms  which  hung  by  her 
mother's  side,  jerked  it  forward.  **  You  can 
shake  'ands  with  her  if  you  want  to,  miss," 
said  Anne. 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth  performed  this  act  of 
courtesy  and — ^went  away.  Her  last  look  was 
at  little  Gertie,  towelling  Anne's  mother 
with  both  hands.  Her  last  thought  was  of 
Anne. 

"  That  thing  has  been  eating  Anne  for 
twenty  years  to  my  knowledge,"  said  Miss 
Pengelly  to  herself. 

She  paused  at  the  gate  to  steal  a  few  of 
Gertie's  daffodils.  She  thought  of  Gertie's 
busy,  tireless  little  arms,  and  she  thought 
what  a  queer  sort  of  sunshine  they  were 
gathering  now. 

Then  she  looked  up  and  beheld — another 
invalid. 


196  Cottage  Pie 

III 

This  was  her  important  neighbour,  Lady 
Knagg— Lady  Knagg  of  "  The  Hall  "—with 
whom  was  her  silent,  dull-eyed  daughter,  the 
Honourable  Eileen  Knagg.  Lady  Knagg  re- 
posed in  her  Bath  chair,  to  which  was  har- 
nessed a  small  black  Shetland  pony,  of  great 
girth  and  respectful  manners.  The  Honour- 
able Eileen  Knagg  stood  at  the  pony's  head 
and  clasped  its  bridle.  In  her  other  hand  she 
held  her  ladyship's  purse,  her  ladyship's  novel, 
and  her  ladyship's  handkerchief,  while  her 
arm  supported  a  cushion  and  a  selection  of  her 
ladyship's  rugs. 

"My  dear  Lady  Knagg,"  cried  Miss  Pen- 
gelly,  "  how  wonderfully  well  you  are  looking  I 
Aren't  these  daffodils  perfectly  splendid !  " 

"  My  dear  Miss  Pengelly,"  said  Lady 
Knagg,  "  I  have  been  terribly  unwell.  The 
flowers  are  nice." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  my  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
addressing  the  honourable  Eileen  Knagg, 
"  that  the  top  end  of  the  Park  is  ablaze  with 
them  now  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  Honourable  Eileen. 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly  raised  her  left 
eyebrow  one-sixteenth  of  an  inch. 


The  Cannibals  197 

"  Eileen,"  explained  her  ladyship,  "  has 
had  no  time  to  look  for  buttercups.  I  have 
been  so  dreadfully  ill.  She  is  such  a  devoted 
daughter." 

"  But  now  that  your  ladyship  is  better," 
suggested  my  Aunt  Elizabeth,  "  Eileen  ought 
really  to  go  and  peep  at  them.  Perhaps," 
continued  my  Aunt  Elizabeth,  turning  to  the 
daughter,  "  you  will  take  me  with  you  and  I 
will  show  you  some  splendid  clumps  close  to 
those  old  beeches.  I  haven't  practised  tres- 
passing all  these  years  for  nothing.  Can  you 
take  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Honourable 
Eileen,  looking  hopefully  at  her  mother. 

"  We  shall  be  so  glad  if  you  will  trespass  in 
the  Park  as  often  as  you  please,  dear  Miss 
Pengelly,"  said  her  ladyship.  "  And  we  shall 
be  so  glad  if  you  will  pick  as  many  buttercups 
as  you  can  find,  and  do  please  come  to  tea  and 
show  them  to  us.  But  don't,  please  don't 
tempt  poor  Eileen  to  go  with  you.  She  is  such 
a  devoted  daughter,  and  I  am  often  so  dread- 
fuUy  ill." 

It  seemed  to  my  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly 
that  the  dull  eyes  of  the  devoted  daughter 
grew  one  shade  duller  when  her  mother  had 
delivered  this  speech. 


198  Cottage  Pie 

IV 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth,  tapping  the  ground  a 
little  viciously  with  her  big  oak  stick,  walked 
back  to  the  little  green  gate,  thinking  hard  of 
Lady  Knagg  and  of  Lady  Knagg's  fat  hand 
and  full  red  cheek,  and  of  Eileen's  tired  back 
and  stupid  eyes. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  little  green  gate, 
who  should  be  standing  there  but — 'Er. 

"  If  you  please,  miss,"  was  her  greeting, 
"  that  Ellen  'as  run  away." 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly  walked 
through  the  gate  and  carefully  closed  it  behind 
her.  Then  she  vouchsafed  an  answer  unto 
*Er.     "  Nonsense  !  "  she  said. 

"  But  indeed,  miss,  she  'ave,"  persisted  the 
cook.  "  '  I'm  goin*  out  to  fetch  some  daffodil,' 
says  she,  and  away  she  ran.  I  bin  waitin'  ever 
since  to  tell  you,  miss.  I  don't  know  when  I 
kin  remember  bein'  so  upset  in  me  life — and 
this  the  day  for  havin*  up  the  drorin'-room 
carpet,  too.  As  I  say  to  Rummery,  miss,  it 
ain't  as  if  some  of  us  was  gettin'  any 
younger." 

"  I  told  her  to  go  out  and  play,"  said  my 
Aunt  Elizabeth  quietly. 

For  a  long  time  no  sound  came  out  of  'Er. 


The  Cannibals  199 

Then,  in  a  queer,  unnatural  voice  (the  result 
of  shock),  she  said  : 

"  But  if  you  please,  miss,  this  is  the  day  for 
havin'  up  the  drorin'-room  carpet." 

"  I  know,"  said  my  Aunt  Elizabeth. 

Cook  grew  very  red. 

"  I  know  also,"  said  my  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
"  that  you  will  give  me  notice  ;  but  then 
again,  I  know  that  you  won't  mean  it." 

"  You  see,  miss  " — the  words  proceeded 
falteringly  from  'Er — "  it  ain't  as  if  some  of 
us  was  gettin'  any  younger." 

*'  That,"  replied  my  Aunt  Elizabeth,  "  is 
no  reason  why  we  should  eat  up  those  who  are 
young." 

"  Certainly  not,  miss  ;  certainly  wo^,"  as- 
sented Cook.  She  paused,  and  for  some 
moments  wrestled  visibly  with  an  apparent 
non  sequitor.  It  is  possible,  however,  that,  in 
her  own  mind,  Cook  applied  some  less  scien- 
tific term  to  my  Aunt  Elizabeth's  extra- 
ordinary utterances.    She  then  said,  simply  : 

"  But  what  about  fetchin'  up  the  drorin'- 
room  carpet,  miss  ?  " 

"  You  and  I  can  do  that,"  replied  my  Aunt 
Elizabeth. 

A  prolonged  and  audible  gasp  escaped  from 
'Er.    Then: 


2(X)  Cottage  Pie 

"  If  Ellen  Mary  is  to  remain  in  this  'ouse, 
miss,  I  must  leave.  I  don't  'old  with  favourit- 
ism, nor  never  did.    It  ain't  as  if " 

"  We  were  young  for  always,"  interpolated 
my  Aunt  Elizabeth.  "  I  don't  hold  with 
cannibalism,  Cook.  There  isn't  so  much 
Youth  in  the  world  that  we  old  women  can 
afford  to  devour  it  up  like  cabbage.  When 
people  are  so  nearly  dead  that  they  can  only 
be  kept  alive  by  the  bodies  of  their  little 
brothers  and  their  little  sisters,  I  think  that 
somebody  ought  to  come  round  with  a  poleaxe 
and  make  them  quite  dead.  You  can  go,  now, 
Cook.    rU  see  you,  presently,  in  the  kitchen." 

Cook,  snorting  violently,  departed.  My 
Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly  stood  still  and  gazed 
upon  the  copper-coloured  back  of  Mr.  Rum- 
mery's  neck. 

V 

After  many  minutes  she  spoke  : 

"  Rummery  !  " 

*'  Marm  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Rummery,  turning 
about  and  saluting. 

"  Are  you  a  cannibal,  Rummery  ?  "  de- 
manded my  Aunt  Elizabeth  Pengelly. 

"  Marm  ?  "  repeated  Mr.  Rummery. 

"  Are  you  a  cannibal,  Rummery  ?  "  said 
my  Aunt  Elizabeth. 


The  Cannibals  201 

Mr.  Rummery  shook  his  head.  "  Me  father 
were  a  Buffalo,"  said  Mr.  Rummery,  "  and  'is 
father  before  um  ;  but  I  be  too  pore  for  sich 
games." 

"  Do  you  eat  your  fellow-creatures,  Rum- 
mery ?  "  persisted  my  Aunt  Elizabeth. 

"  On'y  a  little  park,  marm,"  responded  Mr. 
Rummery.  "  I  be  extraordinary  partial  to 
park.  I  beant  one  for  meat  at  all,  not  in  a 
proper  manner  o*  speakin',  on'y  vegetable  and 
park.  I  be  too  pore  to  eat  much  flesh  at  all, 
on'y  park,  what  moi  young  darter  cook  for  me. 
Moi  darter,  she  can  cook  park." 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth  turned  from  him  with  a 
laugh  and  went  into  her  cottage,  where  she 
soon  surrounded  herself  with  carpet  dust. 

Mr.  Rummery  continued  to  tie  and  untie 
roses  until  the  clock  struck  one,  when  he 
hobbled  across  the  road  to  his  cottage,  where 
he  ate  three  large  bacon  dumplings  which  his 
daughter  had  cooked  in  their  hot  Uttle  kitchen. 

"  You  be  to  run  over  to  the  cross-roads 
now,"  said  Mr.  Rummery  to  his  daughter, 
when  he  had  eaten  the  dumplings,  "  and  'elp 
your  pore  auntie  with  her  washing." 

Mr.  Rummery  then  returned  across  the 
silent  road  to  my  Aunt  Pengelly's  garden, 
where  the  birds  still  sang  of  Hberty. 


XXII 
A  FISHERMAN'S  STORY 


I  BOUGHT  for  two  shillings  in  Blowfield  a  stout 
old  turnip  watch  in  a  copper  case.  This  I 
exhibited  with  some  pride  to  Young  Thomas, 
who  was  gapping  a  hedge  on  my  estate. 

**  *Tis  a  quare  old  set-out,  and  that's  a  sure 
thing,"  observed  Young  Thomas  gracefully. 
"  It  remind  me  of  a  similar  old  set-out  what 
belong  to  me  Gran'fer  Davey  as  lived  in  they 
cottages  be  Pedlar's  Rest.  'Ow's  this  for  a 
watch,  then  ?  " 

Young  Thomas  produced  from  his  pocket 
an  old  glove  containing  a  roll  of  linen,  which 
comprehended  a  calico  bag,  which  contained 
a  wash-leather  bag,  which  contained  a  watch 
— a  watch  of  genuine,  stamped  gold-finish, 
emitting  an  unparalleled  shine.  **  'Ow's  this, 
then  ?  "  repeated  Young  Thomas  :  "  they 
makes  a  different  watch  to-day,  then,  to  what 
was  made  in  they  olden  times.  When  this 
watch  be  going,  that  go  so  silent  you  can  'ardly 
'ear  the  tick  of  it.  But  they  old  sort,  they 
gives  out  a  noise  like  cutting  chaff,  which  well 

202 


A  Fisherman's  Story  203 

I  know  ;  for  me  Gran'fer  Davey  he  'ad  a  simi- 
lar old  set-out  what  he  would  make  us  listen 
to  for  pleasure  when  we  was  little  ones.  'Tis 
a  different  class  of  thing  entirely  what  they 
makes  to-day,"  declared  Young  Thomas,  with 
undoubted  truth.  "  See  the  shine  of  it :  see 
how  thin  that  be  :  see  the  pretty  letters  on 
the  face.  That's  a  wonderful  good  time- 
keeper, when  that  be  going  any  sense." 

With  this  final  laudation,  Young  Thomas 
reinserted  his  treasure  in  the  leather  bag,  and 
returned  the  leather  bag  to  the  calico  bag,  and 
the  calico  bag  to  its  bandage,  and  the  bandage 
to  the  glove,  and  the  glove  to  his  pocket.  "  I 
won  this  watch  for  a  prize,"  added  Thomas, 
"  that  come  out  in  a  paper.  There  was  some 
pictures  printed  of  the  King,  and  Gen'ral 
Kitchener,  and  the  German  Kayser,  and 
'Ackenschmidt.  And  anybody  what  fancied 
'isself  could  go  in  for  it.  The  puzzle  was  to 
find  out  the  right  names  for  the  right  pictures, 
and  put  them  underneath,  and  send  them  in 
with  five  shillin'  entrance  money.  I  got  a 
good  memory  for  faces  ;  so  I  joined  the  com- 
petition and  filled  up  all  the  names  correct  and 
won  the  watch.    I  was  one  of  the  lucky  ones." 

"  That's  the  new-fashioned  way  of  getting 
a  watch,"  I  said,  for  the  sake  of  saying  some- 


204  Cottage  Pie 

thing.  "  They  did  not  distribute  watches  in 
that  New  England  manner  at  the  time  when 
this  was  made." 

"  Not  they,"  assented  Thomas,  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  pity  rather  than  contempt  in  his 
voice.  "  Times  are  changed  as  well  as 
watches." 

I  took  off  the  old  watch's  overcoat  and 
showed  his  "  movement  "  to  Young  Thomas  : 
I  begged  him  particularly  to  observe  the  little 
fairy-chain  of  fine  wrought  steel,  by  means  of 
which  the  power  from  his  spring  was  trans- 
mitted to  the  lower  organs  of  his  body.  I 
begged  my  young  friend  to  consider  the 
infinite  delicacies  of  this  manual  product  and 
to  reflect  that  after  a  hundred  years  of  strenu- 
ous, persistent  labour,  the  queer  old  watch 
required  no  treatment  more  elaborate  than 
an  application  of  oil  to  make  it  set  to  work 
again,  and  tick  off  the  seconds  and  minutes 
and  hours  and  days  and  years  with  unfailing 
accuracy  and  vim. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Thomas,  "'tis  a  artful  old 
set-out  and  remind  me  of  a  similar  old  curi- 
osity what  belonged  to  me  Gran'fer  Davey. 
Him  what  used  to  make  the  baskets.  That 
was  a  uglier  old  watch  than  what  this  be,  an* 
made  more  n'ise.     I  dessay  that  would  be 


A  Fisherman's  Story  205 

worth  some  money  now.  Me  Gran'fer  Davey, 
he  used  it  for  a  alarm  to  wake  'isself  up  to  go 
fishun  of  a  morning." 

"  No  doubt,"  I  hazarded,  "  he  made  use  of 
the  chaff-cutting  effect  ?  " 

"  Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir  ?  "  said  Thomas. 

"  How  did  he  produce  the  alarm  ?  "  I  said. 

"  You  see,"  explained  Young  Thomas, 
slowly  wiping  his  swab-hook,  "  me  Gran'fer 
Davey  and  me  Gran' mo' er,  they  never  could 
agree  about  the  fishun.  Me  Gran'mo'er  she 
say  that  the  proper  place  for  a  married  man  at 
fower  in  the  morning  were  in  bed  along  of  his 
wife.  But  me  Gran'fer  he  would  go  fishun. 
And  Gran'mo'er  at  last  she  say  that  the  old 
gentleman  he  better  sleep  elsewhere  if  he 
wanter  goo  fishun  :  not  go  stompin'  about 
like  a  steam-engine  when  she  be  dreamin'  o' 
the  Scriptures  at  daybreak.  And  Gran'fer  he 
say  that  he  will  sleep  on  the  sofa  in  the  parlour, 
and  Gran'mo'er  she  say  so  he  can,  for  all  she 
care.  And  Gran'fer  say  she  got  to  call  him, 
then,  in  time,  so's  he  can  git  up  early  and  goo 
out  fishun.  And  Gran'mo'er  say,  *  My  God, 
no  :  you  sleep  be  yeself ;  you  can  wake  be 
yeself.' 

**  So  Gran'fer  he  took  and  made  'isself  this 
alarm  what  I  speak  of.    He  sets  a  penny  edge- 


2o6  Cottage  Pie 

wise  on  the  corner  of  the  parlour  mantelpiece, 
and  he  sticks  a  dab  o'  wax  agen  it,  so  as  that'll 
just  stand  up.  And  he  fasten  a  match-stick 
to  the  hour-' and  of  his  watch,  and  'e  sets  the 
watch  agin  the  penny,  so  that  the  match-stick 
'11  strike  it  when  the  hour-'and  touches  fower. 
And  he  gets  a  little  table  and  me  Gran'mo'er's 
china  candlesticks,  and  'e  sets  the  candle- 
sticks upon  the  table,  and  the  table  under- 
neath the  penny,  and  he  sets  a  old  tin  tray 
upon  the  candlesticks,  so's  that  will  jest 
balance  of  itself.    And  he  goo  to  bed. 

"  And  in  the  morning,  when  the  hour-'and 
come  to  fower  o'clock,  the  match-stick  at  the 
the  end  of  it,  that  strike  the  penny,  which 
topple  over  and  strike  the  tray,  and  the  tray 
that  topple  over  and  make  a  clatter.  And 
the  china  candlesticks  they  toppled  over,  too, 
and  git  broke,  which  was  more  than  me 
Gran'fer  had  aimed  for. 

"  But  that  woke  him  to  the  minute.  And 
he  goo  out  fishun." 


XXIII 
TOMMY  SNOOKS  AND  BESSY  BROOKS 

As  Tommy  Snooks  and  Bessie  Brooks  were 
walking  out  one  Sunday,  says  Tommy  Snooks 
to  Bessie  Brooks,  "To-morrow  will  be  Mon- 
day." 

Bessie's  response  is  not  recorded  in  the 
picture-books  ;  but  I  happen  to  know  what 
it  was.    She  murmured,  **  'Mm  !  " 

"  'Mm  !  "  was  a  favourite  observation  with 
Bessie  ;  and  for  that  matter,  with  Thomas  as 
well.  They  accompanied  each  other  to  school 
in  the  mornings,  these  two,  and  they  came 
home  together  every  night.  They  went  twice 
to  church  on  Sundays,  hand  in  hand,  and  they 
came  twice  home  again,  also  holding  hands. 
Their  homes  adjoined  each  other. 

So  that  when  you  come  to  think  about  it, 
"  'Mm  "  was  about  the  only  thing  they  could 
say.  "  Aht  be  gallus  coold  thes  marnin'," 
Bessie  would  occasionally  venture  during  the 
schoolward  journey,  or  **  Aht  be  gallus  'ot " 
(according,  you  will  understand,  to  the  inci- 
dence of  the  seasons),  and  Thomas  would  say, 
**  'Mm  !  "    And  Thomas,  the  infrequency  of 

207 


2o8  Cottage  Pie 

whose  utterances  gave  to  them  a  special 
charm,  would  presently  give  expression  to 
some  thought  of  his  own,  similar  in  truth  and 
accuracy  to  that  recorded  in  the  books. 
"  They  postesses  be  newly  tarred,"  is  the  sort 
of  sudden,  unexpected  reflection  which  would 
present  itself  to  Thomas.  And  Thomas's  un- 
failing friend  and  confidant  might  be  relied 
upon  to  offer  her  assent  to  this  proposition  in 
the  usual  manner. 

There  came  a  time,  of  course,  when  the 
village  school-house  ceased  to  be  attended 
either  by  Tommy  or  by  Bessie.  They  "  passed 
out,"  as  the  saying  goes,  on  the  same  day  and 
upon  the  same  day  they  passed  in — passed 
into  another  sort  of  school  where  the  teachers 
were  nicknamed,  variously,  "  Experience," 
"  Tribulation,"  "  Success,"  or  "  Folly,"  and 
where  the  prizes  were  distributed  with  a 
prodigal  hand,  and  were  also  variously  dis- 
guised, reaching  you,  as  a  rule,  with  great 
suddenness  on  the  back  of  your  neck. 

The  particular  branch  attended  by  Thomas 
and  Bessie  when  first  they  entered  this  great, 
new  school  was  presided  over  by  a  gentleman 
named  Timms.  And  that  knowledge  of  hard 
subjects  which  Mr.  Timms  could  not  impart 
to  people  was  scarcely  worth  the  learning. 


Tommy  Snooks  and  Bessy  Brooks  209 

The  particular  and  especial  subject  dealt  with 
by  Professor  Timms  was  chair-making  in  all 
its  branches.  And  that  erudite  gentleman 
possessed  few  pupils  more  silent  and  indus- 
trious than  Thomas  who  turned  his  chair-legs 
and  Elizabeth  who  varnished  them. 

Silence,  indeed,  was  the  outstanding  feature 
of  Mr.  Timms' s  establishment.  A  visitor  to  his 
chair-shed — let  us  drop  the  embarrassing 
allegory  of  the  Professorship — would  be 
chiefly  and  most  arrestingly  impressed  by 
the  horrible  stillness  of  the  place.  Of  the 
mechanical  noises  there  were  enough  and  to 
spare.  The  chair-shed,  indeed,  gave  up  a 
positive  roar  from  the  voice  of  industry,  which 
drew  its  notes  from  pole-lathe,  saw,  hammer, 
anvil,  every  infernal  thing  which  was  made  to 
buzz  or  clang  or  clash.  But  through  it  all  the 
hum  of  human  speech  was  strangely  absent ; 
so  that  the  sudden  sound  of  some  faint  voice 
commanding  some  faint  figure  to  "  Moind  my 
bloody  thumb  !  "  would  strike  upon  your  ear 
in  that  thick  tumult  like  a  loud  cry  from  the 
sea. 

It  is  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  the  men 
and  women,  and  boys  and  girls  who  worked 
for  Mr.  Timms  did  not  possess  the  sorts  of  soul 
to  be  affrighted  by  this  feature  of  their  daily 


2IO  Cottage  Pie 

environment.  Thomas  Snooks,  for  instance, 
as  he  bent  over  his  pole-lathe — pushing,  push- 
ing, pushing  with  his  foot,  digging,  digging 
with  his  chisel,  watching  with  his  eye — ap- 
peared to  be  free  not  only  from  the  emotion 
of  horror,  but  also  from  any  other  emotion, 
human  or  animal. 

The  pole-lathe,  which  was  invented  by  a 
native  of  Syria  some  two  thousand  years 
before  the  advent  of  Christ,  and  which 
is  considered  by  the  Buckinghamshire 
chairmakers  to  be  a  very  modern  and 
useful  appliance,  is  not  in  itself  a  noisy 
instrument.  The  shed  where  Thomas  worked 
was  solely  occupied  by  lathe-men  and  var- 
nishers,  so  that  amid  the  gentle  purring  pro- 
duced by  the  joint  efforts  of  these  operatives, 
conversation  would  not  be  merely  possible, 
but  even  helpful.  But  every  lathe-worker, 
even  as  Thomas,  begrudged  his  breath  to  idle 
speech  ;  and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
every  lathe-worker,  even  as  Thomas,  was 
stationed  in  proximity  to  a  maiden.  The 
maidens  did  the  varnishing. 

Thomas's  varnisher  was  "  simple "  any- 
how ;  so  perhaps  she  didn't  count.  But 
Thomas's  own  particular  young  woman,  Eliza- 
beth Brooks  to  wit,  was  stationed  within  easy 


Tommy  Snooks  and  Bessy  Brooks  211 

speaking  range  by  the  side  of  the  very  next 
lathe.  And  yet  Thomas  would  exchange  no 
word  with  her  from  the  beginning  unto  the 
ending  of  every  long  day's  work.  It  should, 
however,  be  noted  (in  partial  mitigation  of 
this  strange  conduct)  that  **  'Mm  !  "  is  not  a 
word  which  one  need  trouble  to  exchange  in 
business  hours. 

And  perhaps  this  unnatural  habit  of  re- 
serve during  the  week  days  had  a  certain 
method  in  it,  for  it  must  surely  have  added 
a  sort  of  piquancy  to  the  united  promenade 
of  the  Sunday.  For  this  strange  young 
couple,  who  slept  next  door  to  each  other  at 
night,  who  worked  side  by  side  during  the 
day  time,  and  who  yet  uttered  no  word  of 
conversation  during  all  the  weary  hours  of 
the  working  week,  would  solemnly  meet  upon 
the  Sunday  and  clasp  each  other  round  the 
small  of  the  back  in  an  embrace  peculiar  to 
their  kind,  and  pace  the  sylvan  lanes  together 
throughout  the  live-long  Sabbath. 

Upon  these  occasions,  of  course,  their  tacit 
rule  of  silence  would  be  relaxed.  Mr.  Snooks, 
after  lengthy  inward  preparation,  would  give 
utterance  to  some  conviction  or  idea — proba- 
bly of  a  meteorological  character — and  Miss 
Brooks  would  respond  with  an  "  'Mm !  "  of 


212  Cottage  Pie 

assent.  And  when  Miss  Brooks,  after  similarly 
profound  cogitation,  gave  expression  to  her 
belief  that  the  surrounding  grass  was  ripe 
for  the  reaper,  her  Thomas  would  confirm 
that  belief  by  means  of  a  similar  exclamation. 
And  all  this  time  they  would  be  holding 
waists  and  holding  hands,  and  looking  each 
into  the  face  of  the  other  with  an  expression 
of  great  tolerance.  So  they  would  walk  on 
— ^if  you  can  call  it  walking  :  the  movement 
fluctuates  between  a  crawl  and  a  hop,  and  is 
locally  termed  **  a  otchle."  And  as  they 
walked  they  would  meet  and  exchange  nods 
with  a  number  of  other  couples,  who  lived  as 
they  did,  who  worked  as  they  did,  who 
thought  as  they  did,  who  talked  as  they  did, 
who  loved  as  they  did. 

One  Sunday,  as  they  walked  out,  Thomas 
gave  forth  yet  another  utterance  which  is 
not  recorded  in  the  picture-books.  Said  he  : 
"  Oi've  a-touched  the  twanty  !  '* 

"  'Mm  ?  "  remarked  Bessie. 

"  And  so,"  pursued  Thomas,  "  we'll  make 
it  Michaelmas." 

Again  Elizabeth  said  "  'Mm  !  "  And  then 
Elizabeth  delivered  an  observation  on  her  own 
account. 

"  01  got  a  matter  o'  noine-pun-ten  meself/' 


Tominy  Snooks  and  Bessy  Brooks  213 

said  she,  "  an'  there'll  be  mother's  'surance 
— when  mother  goos." 

"  Ah  !  "  responded  Thomas.  "  'Aht'll  be 
twanty-noine-pun-ten,  than  !  " 

"  And  there'll  be  mother's  'surance  money," 
reiterated  Bessie. 

"  'Mm  !  "  said  Thomas. 

For  some  months  after  their  marriage, 
Bessie  continued  to  work  in  the  chair-shed. 
It  saved  her  from  feeling  lonely  ("  wi'  nobody 
to  talk  to  an'  thaht ").  Besides,  the  money 
was  a  consideration.  In  really  busy  weeks, 
she  brought  home  as  much  as  six  and  seven 
shillings.  And  so  things  went  on  much  as 
before,  even  to  the  Sunday  walk  and  the 
Sunday  talk. 

But  presently  the  time  arrived  when 
Bessie  was  physically  incapacitated  from 
applying  varnish  to  chair-legs.  She  took  to 
her  bed.  And  Thomas  came  home  one  even- 
ing to  find  a  neighbour  woman  frying  onions 
for  his  supper  in  their  living-room.  So  Thomas 
walked  upstairs,  where  "  the  trouble  "  was  ; 
and  he  stood  by  his  wife's  bedside.  She  put 
forth  her  hand — a  hand  which  was  stained  a 
bright  red-brown  from  the  varnishing — and 
touched  his  arm.  "  'Aht  be  twins,"  said 
Bessie. 


214  Cottage  Pie 

"  'Mm  !  "  said  Thomas.  And  he  went  out 
into  the  garden  and  dug  up  a  double  quantity 
of  potatoes.  His  views  as  to  the  requirements 
of  the  situation  were  vague  ;  but  he  was 
hazily  conscious  of  an  impression  that  twins 
would  cost  one  something  to  keep  up. 

It  was  shortly  after  the  appearance  of  the 
twins  that  Thomas  made  his  domestic  debut 
in  the  capacity  of  a  drunkard.  She  hit  him 
with  a  chair-spindle  and  called  him  foul 
names,  and  he  slunk  abjectly  bed-wards. 
And  in  the  morning  she  applied  a  mixture  of 
lard  and  tears  to  the  lump  which  she  had 
raised.  When  Thomas,  some  weeks  later, 
again  came  home  in  a  state  of  intoxication, 
she  tried  to  repeat  the  treatment ;  but  he 
pushed  her  out  of  doors  and  locked  it ;  so  that 
she  took  cold.  And  ever  afterwards  you 
might  know  of  Mr.  Snooks's  backslidings,  for 
they  showed  themselves  either  in  a  lump  upon 
Mr.  Snooks's  forehead  (which  was  a  token 
merely  of  the  "  glass  too  much  " — a  com- 
paratively venial  wickedness),  or  when  Mr. 
Snooks's  sin  had  taken  the  form  of  a  downright 
orgy  in  the  snufflings  of  his  wife.  But,  after 
all,  it  is  something  (as  the  Snookses  go)  that 
he  did  not  beat  her. 

After  the  appearance  of  the  twins,  it  goes 


Tommy  Snooks  and  Bessy  Brooks   2 1 5 

without  sa5dng  that  the  attendances  of  Eliza- 
beth at  the  chair-shed  were  permanently  dis- 
continued. The  twins  were  followed  by  other 
offspring,  singly  and  in  pairs.  EHzabeth  fed 
and  clothed  them  all  to  the  best  of  the  means 
at  her  disposal,  which  says  that  they  grew 
long  but  silent,  like  their  parents.  Whenever 
a  new  baby  was  born,  Thomas  would  lay  down 
more  potatoes  ;  whenever  a  baby  died,  he 
would  say,  "  'Mm  !  " 

But  upon  things  and  events  in  general  he 
said  less  than  ever.  The  pole-lathe  stimulated 
one's  taste  for  silence,  and  there  was  much  to 
do  in  the  garden,  besides  repairing  the  family 
boots. 

Also,  Thomas  did  not  neglect  his  duties  as 
a  citizen.  Elections  happened,  off  and  on, 
and  gentlemen  waited  upon  Thomas  at  his 
garden  gate  and  uttered  appeals  to  his  in- 
telligence. 

"  Vote  for  Pipkin  and  Imperial  Unity  !  " 
the  gentleman  with  the  true-blue  literature 
would  say.  "  You  are  not  the  man  to  stand 
by  and  see  us  driven  out  of  Polynesia  by  the 
Germans  !  " 

And  Thomas,  very  naturally,  would  answer, 
"  'Mm !  " 

"  Tinkler  is  your  man,  my  fine  fellow,"  was 


2i6  Cottage  Pie 

the  assurance  offered  to  him  by  the  gentleman 
who  came  round  with  the  yellow  bills.  **  We 
are  lor  keeping  down  the  income-tax  and 
curtailing  waste,  and  for  disestablishment  and 
Peace." 

And  again  our  Thomas's  response  would  be 
an  "  'Mm  !  " 

But  when  the  actual  day  of  election  came, 
it  was  Elizabeth,  combined  with  his  own  nice 
sense  of  what  was  due  to  him,  who  would 
settle  his  convictions  for  him  :  "  You  goo 
down  to  Petterling  in  a  baker's  cart !  "  she 
would  cry,  pointing  a  scornful  finger  at  him 
as  he  stood  there  in  his  Sunday  **  blacks  " — 
"  You  goo  down  in  a  baker's  cart  alung  of 
Will  Parkis  an'  them  MiHshy  buys  ;  an'  you 
gin  up  a  marnin's  wark  an'  all !  Shame  on  ye 
for  a  pimmicky  fool !  Can't  yew  boide  patient 
for  a  minute,  then,  whoile  the  ganelman  comes 
back  along  o'  the  yaller  moty-car  ?  Boide 
patient,  now,  an'  goo  yew  down  decent ! 
Baker's  cart,  indeed  !  " 

And  Thomas,  saying  **  'Mm  !  "  would  curb 
his  zeal  and  wait  on  for  the  motor-car,  and 
vote  accordingly. 

In  the  meantime,  Elizabeth  grew  grey,  and 
developed  a  comic  complaint  called  "spasims"; 
and  Thomas  developed  a  ludicrous  style  of 


Tommy  Snooks  and  Bessy  Brooks  217 

walking,  a  sort  of  shuffle  from  the  knee  down- 
wards, as  he  plodded  to  and  from  the  chair- 
shed.  And  Thomas's  children  grew  and  grew, 
walking  silently  by  twos  to  the  school,  launch- 
ing at  rare  intervals  into  comments  upon  the 
obvious,  and  receiving  the  same  with  mono- 
syllabic "  'Mms."  Thus  one  sees  that  what 
is  bred  in  the  bone  will  come  out  in  the 
flesh. 

Here,  properly  speaking,  the  history  of  the 
Brookses  and  the  Snookses  cometh  to  an  end  ; 
for  we  have  reached  that  critical  period  in 
their  fortunes  which  the  play-bills  describe  as 
**  present-day."  But  having  had  an  extensive 
acquaintanceship  with  other  Snookses  and 
other  Brookses,  I  feel  myself  able  to  forecast 
the  future  of  this  particular  couple.  It  is  an 
uncomplicated  future,  and  seems  chiefly  to  be 
distinguished  by  neatly  kept  gravel  and  a  set 
of  wrought-iron  raihngs,  most  **  ornate  "  in 
design.  Bessie,  attired  in  a  blue  cape  and  a 
grey  skirt,  stands  upon  one  side  of  the  railings, 
and  Tommy,  in  a  funny  blue  jacket  and  yellow 
trousers,  upon  the  other.    Bessie  speaks  : 

"  Yes,"  says  she,  "  there  be  bacon-dump- 
ling, Sundays." 

"  'Mm  ?  "  exclaimeth  Thomas.  "  There  be 
'bacca  'pon  our  soide." 


2i8  Cottage  Pie 

"  Yew  an*  yewr  'bacca  !  "  says  the  woman. 
"  'Mm  !  " 

"  Yew  an'  yer  bacon,"  responds  the  man,  a 
little  obviously.  .  .  .  Then,  with  an  air  of 
bright  conviction  :  "  To-morrer  will  be  Sun- 
day.   "'Mm/" 


XXIV 
JENNER 


The  author  of  this  work  has  already  hinted 
that  he  inhabits  a  picturesque  cottage,  situ- 
ated in  Sussex.  It  is  not  generally  known, 
however,  that  his  enjoyment  of  this  property 
is  shared  in  perpetuity  by  a  Mr.  Jenner.  By 
an  awful,  ceaseless  Mr.  Jenner,  who  is  a  sort 
of  unholy  ghost — invisible,  inaudible ;  the 
whole  incomprehensible. 

My  original  introduction  to  Jenner  was 
performed  by  Mr.  Tracey — a  local  horti- 
culturist of  some  standing  who,  having  repre- 
sented in  convincing  terms  his  ability  to 
convert  the  wilderness  attached  to  this  cottage 
into  a  "  proper,  antikew,  le'l  genelman's 
garden,"  was  engaged,  for  an  indeiimte  period, 
to  perform  that  miracle.  Mr.  Tracey,  during 
his  first  day's  work  and  whilst  occupied  in 
disinterring  pot-lids  and  kettles  from  a  tin- 
mine  which  then  existed  on  the  property, 
thus  broached  the  subject  of  Jenner. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Tracey,  "  what  old 
Jenner  would  think  of  all  this  ?  " 

219 


220  Cottage  Pie 

"  Ah  !  "  I  murmured,  not  wishing  to  display 
my  ignorance  of  local  history. 

"  Not  much,  I  expect,"  continued  Mr. 
Tracey. 

"  Oh  !  "  I  exclaimed,  with  anxious  wonder. 

"  'Twas  old  Jenner,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Tracey, 
"  as  made  this  garden  what  it  be." 

What  this  garden  at  that  moment  be 
was  an  unsightly  and  extensive  refuse-heap, 
adorned  in  places  by  parched,  neglected, 
blighted  fruit  trees.  Even  the  elaborately 
organised  kettle-beds  were  mildewed  and 
weed-bound.  A  prolonged  survey  of  old 
Jenner's  performance  left  me  quite  without 
enthusiasm. 

"  Old  Jenner,"  mused  Mr.  Tracey,  "  was 
the  sort  of  good  old  gardener  they  don't  make 
these  days.  'E  on'y  got  one  eye.  A  most 
respectable  man  in  every  way.  'E  built  this 
cottage.    I  knowed  'im  well." 

"  But  this  cottage,"  I  pointed  out,  "  was 
built  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Tracey,  "  very  hkely." 

"  In  that  case,"  I  urged,  "  Mr.  Jenner 
would  have  to  be  about  one  hundred 
and  eighty  years  old  when  you  knew 
him." 

"  He  was  very  old,"  said  Mr.  Tracey. 


Jenner  221 

"  So  old  as  all  that,  do  you  think  ?  "  I 
submitted. 

"  Well,"  observed  Mr.  Tracey,  "  'is  son 
died  on'y  the  other  day,  and  'e  was  nigh  sixty. 
Per'aps,  when  you  come  to  think  it  over,  I  be 
got  confused  in  me  mind,  and  'twas  the  son  as 
built  this  place.  That  would  bring  it  back  to 
about  the  time  you  mention." 

I  did  not  see  by  what  process  of  reasoning 
Mr.  Tracey  arrived  at  this  result.  But  I  pre- 
ferred to  leave  his  arithmetic  as  I  found  it, 
rather  than  institute  a  propaganda  at  that 
moment.  For,  mind  you,  I  employed  this 
person  :  why  should  he  study  arithmetic  in 
my  time  ? 

Nothing  more  was  heard  of  Mr.  Jenner  for 
the  rest  of  that  day  ;  but  he  reappeared  again 
the  following  afternoon,  when  a  small,  red- 
whiskered  man  accosted  me  on  the  high  road, 
saying  : 

"  I  beg  ye're  pardon,  young  man,  but  be  you 
the  party  what  have  rented  Jenner's  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied. 

"  Well,  now,"  commented  Whiskers,  "  then 
I  bin  told  a  lie.  And  yet — and  yet  you  be 
surely  the  young  party  what  was  pointed  out 
to  me  :  the  same  funny  walk  and  all.  'Tis  the 
le'l  old  cottage  long  in  Sludge  Lane  what  I 


222  Cottage  Pie 

speak  of.  Ain't  you  rented  that,  young 
man  ?  " 

'*  Sir,"  I  replied,  "it  is  true  that  I  have 
acquired  Stone  Cottage  in  Sludge  Lane.  But 
I  do  not  call  it  by  the  name  of  *  Jenner's.' 
What  has  Jenner  to  do  with  me  ?  " 

"  'E  got  this  much  to  do  with  you,  young 
man,"  responded  Whiskers  :  "  There  wouldn't 
be  no  le'l  old  cottage  'long  in  Sludge  Lane, 
save  for  this  Jenner  what  rooted  it  all  with  'is 
own  'and  and  planted  the  medlar  tree.  What 
would  Jenner's  be  without  the  medlar  tree  ?  " 

"  But  there  is  not  a  medlar  tree,"  I  pro- 
tested. 

"  There  is,  then,"  said  Whiskers.  "  'Cos 
ole  Jenner,  'e  planted  it,  and  me  own  old 
father  'e  seeA  'im  plant  it.  That  was  afore 
your  time,  young  man." 

"  At  any  rate,  I  have  never  seen  the  medlar 
tree." 

"  I'll  lay  you  'ave,  then,"  responded  Whis- 
kers :  "  on'y  more  than  likely  you  took  it 
for  a  quince.  'Tisn't  everybody  as  know  a 
medlar  tree  when  they  see  one.  I  don't 
believe  there  be  a  finer  crop  of  medlars  in  the 
parish  than  them  what  old  Jenner  raises. 
Well  I  remember  *im  in  'is  old  blue  coat.  'E 
was  lame  of  one  leg." 


Jenner  223 

"  And  partially  blind  ?  "  I  hazarded. 

"  Not  'im  !  "  responded  Whiskers  hotly. 
"  'Tis  the  son  you  be  a-thinkin'  of,  unless  it  be 
the  uncle.  Jenner  'isself  could  see  as  well  as 
me.  'Twas  'im  what  planted  the  medlar  :  that 
was  never  planted  by  no  bhnd  man.  But  the 
son — or  else  the  uncle — 'e  was  blind,  for 
many's  the  time  I've  heard  my  father  speak 
of  it,  'e  'avin'  bhnded  'im  'is  very  own  self, 
crossing  Potter's  stile  with  a  shot-gun.  But 
whether  'twas  the  son  or  whether  'twas  the 
uncle  I  don't  exackly  know  :  but  whichever 
that  be,  'twas  the  same  as  put  in  they  winter 
apple  trees." 

"  But,"  I  submitted,  "  those  winter  apples 
are  said  to  be  as  old  as  the  cottage." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Whiskers  :   "  and  older  !  " 

**  'Tis  a  good  job  I  met  you,"  continued 
Whiskers  :  *'  for  I  was  goin'  along  to  *  Jen- 
ner's  '  in  the  'opes  I  should,  meet  you  :  in  the 
matter  of  your  'edges  and  ditches.  You  be 
recommended  to  me  as  'avin'  arst  for  a  good 
'edger  and  ditcher." 

"  Go  along  to  '  Johnson's,* "  I  responded, 
"  and  ask  for  Mr.  Tracey.  Tell  him  that  if  he 
sees  fit  to  employ  you  he  has  my  permission 
to  do  so." 

"  Ah,"  said  Whiskers  ;   "  old  Tom  Tracey. 


224  Cottage  Pie 

I  know.  'Tis  '  Jenner's,'  I  suppose,  you  mean. 
I'U  say  '  so  long  !  '  then." 

I  went  about  my  business  in  the  village 
calmly  and  without  fear.  It  had  not  yet 
occurred  to  me  that  I  was  haunted.  This 
knowledge  came  to  me  that  very  morning  : 
for  I  was  waited  upon  by  a  Mrs.  Pett  (you 
have  met  her  before,  with  her  little  fat  basket) 
who  came  to  seek  the  office  of  '*  housekeeper." 
Having  made  certain  inquiries,  Mrs.  Pett 
appointed  herself  to  the  post  in  these  words  : 
"  Five  shillings,  eh  ?  Ah  well  :  I  daresay  I 
can  oblige."  Then,  with  wet  eyes  and  a  falter- 
ing accent,  she  made  the  following  speech : 

"  'Tis  a  funny  le'l  old  place,  to  be  sure.  I 
could  almost  fancy,  comin'  up  the  road,  as  I 
seed  old  Jenner  'isself  a-standin*  at  the  gate. 
'E  made  that  gate  'isself  with  some  wood 
what  my  old  father  give  'im." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  I  asserted,  **  that  is  a 
brand-new  gate,  made  to  my  order  by  a  steam 
engine  in  Norway." 

Mrs.  Pett  inspected  the  gate.  "  I  see,  now," 
she  said  at  last,  "  as  this  be  new.  'Tis  a  flimsy 
sort  of  thing,  don't  you  think,  sir  ?  But,  then, 
they  don't  make  gates  at  all  in  these  days,  not 
to  say  gates.  My  man  is  alius  saying  as  no- 
body can  make  a  gate  same  as  old  Jenner 


Jenner  225 

could.    Sich  a  nice  old  man  that  be  :  a  great 
chapel-goer,  and  stone-deaf." 

I  peremptorily  closured  Mrs.  Pett,  and 
strode  into  the  garden,  hoping  to  encounter 
just  cause  for  having  a  row  with  Mr.  Tracey, 
but  Mr.  Tracey  was  peaceably  lunching  off 
bread  and  cucumber.  With  him  was  Whis- 
kers similarly  occupied.  And  Whiskers  was 
relating  a  sad  incident  from  the  life  of  Mr. 
Jenner. 

Mr.  Jenner,  it  seems,  had  disinherited  a  son 
— or  else  it  was  a  nephew — who  had  revenged 
himself  by  stealing  into  the  garden  at  dead  of 
night  and  "  barking  "  the  old  man's  favourite 
fruit  trees,  with  the  result  that  they  wilted 
and  died.  Whiskers,  I  believe,  had  recollected 
this  story  in  order  to  explain  the  evident 
absence  of  the  medlar  tree  ;  but  to  me  the 
history  was  interesting,  as  proving  that  Mr. 
Jenner — or  somebody  else  of  the  same  name — 
had  really  existed.  It  was  so  obviously  a  true 
story,  so  thoroughly  in  accord  with  the  fine 
old  English  ideal  of  "  the  family." 

Not  wishing  to  obtrude  upon  the  well- 
earned  repose  of  these  worthy  men,  I  re- 
treated to  the  house  ;  but  was  soon  fetched 
back  again  by  the  sound  of  a  violent  alterca- 
tion. 


226  Cottage  Pie 

Whiskers,  who  had  risen  to  his  feet,  was 
threatening  Mr.  Tracey  with  a  formidable 
length  of  cucumber.  "  I  tell  you  'twas  old 
Jenner  'isself,"  cried  Whiskers. 

"  And  I  tell  you  'twas  'is  son,"  retorted  Mr. 
Tracey. 

"  I  suppose  my  father  never  went  to  school 
with  Jenner,  then  ?  Nor  went  a-courtin' 
with  'im  ?  Nor  stood  as  a  witness  to  the  first 
boy's  christening  ?  I  tell  you  'twas  old  Jenner 
as  built  the  place  ;  and  likewise  put  the  trees 
in — at  least  they  was  trees  them  days,  afore 
any  novices  'ad  the  prunin*  of  'em." 

"  'Twas  his  son,"  repeated  Mr.  Tracey. 
*'  And  if  you  call  me  ere  another  name  I'll 
knock  ye' re  ribs  in  !  " 

"  'Twas  old  Jenner,  I  tell  you,"  persisted 
Whiskers. 

"  I  say  'twas  Jenner's  son,"  said  Mr.  Tracey. 
"  If  'twas  old  Jenner,  same  as  you  will  'ave  it, 
he  would  have  to  be  a  hunderd  and  eighty 
year  old  day  of  'is  death.  I  be  surprised  a 
man  o'  your  schooHng  don't  see  that  for 
'isself." 

"  I  don't  care  nothing  about  old  Jenner's 
age,"  responded  Whiskers.  **  You  can  call 
'im  any  age  you  like.  All  I  tell  you  is  this  : 
old  Jenner  built  that  cottage.    Aye,"  added 


Jenner  227 

Whiskers,  warming  to  his  theme,  "  and  I'll 
tell  you  somethink  else  :  old  Jenner  'e  like- 
wise built  the  first  cottage  what  stood  on  this 
spot :  the  old  original  cottage.  When  that 
wore  out,  'e  put  up  this  one.  If  anybody  arst 
who  tell  you  that,  let  you  say  as  'Arry 
'Opkins  tell  you,  what  knowed  old  Jenner 
well — 'im  and  'is  old  blue  coat." 

I  had  had  a  surfeit  of  Jenner  by  this  time. 
I  went  for  a  walk  on  the  Downs.  I  walked  all 
night.  When,  at  the  first  sign  of  dawn,  I 
staggered  home,  who  should  accost  me  but  the 
ancient  postman. 

"  Ah,  now,"  pipes  this  dotard,  "  you  be 
making  things  shipshape  up  at  '  Jenner's,*  I 
see.  What  with  they  arches  and  the  pleasure- 
lawn  and  that,  'tis  the  same  as  if  Jenner  'isself 
was  come  back." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  I  said.  "  Old  Jenner 
grew  cabbages  and  pigs." 

"  That's  right,"  assented  the  postman : 
"  and  pleasure  lawns  and  arches  also.  That 
pear  tree  of  'is  be  the  first  in  the  village  to  this 
day." 

I  crawled  on  home  to  bed.  At  noon  I  got  up. 
I  stood  at  my  gate  of  Norway  deal  and  was 
greeted  by  an  offensive  tax-collector,  who  was 
riding  by  on  a  fat  pony.    The  tax-collector. 


228  Cottage  Pie 

mind  you  :  a  greasy  rascal  who  levies  a  lamp 
and  pavement  rate,  but  gives  me  neither 
lamp  nor  pavement.  This  person  waved  an 
oily  palm  at  me  and  said  : 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Jenner.'* 


XXV 

MR.  MULLINGER'S  JOKE 

"  Thaht  MuUinger,'*  said  Gran'fer  Askell, 
who  explained  the  joke  to  me,  "  thaht 
Mullinger  *e  be  a  rare  one  for  'is  fun."  Which 
statement  I  can  myself  endorse,  having  had 
the  happiness  to  strike  up  an  acquaintance- 
ship with  Mr.  Mullinger  when  I  was  collecting 
wild-flowers  from  a  wood,  within  the  precincts 
of  which  certain  pheasants  in  the  charge  of 
Mr.  Mullinger  chanced  at  that  moment  to  be 
nesting.  I  noticed,  upon  that  occasion,  what 
a  funny  man  he  was. 

I  was  not,  therefore,  wholly  surprised  to  be 
told  by  Gran'fer  Askell  that  Woodman  Joice 
had  classified  this  good  and  faithful  servant 
as  "a  red-bearded,  'Ampsheer-born  some- 
thing!  "    He  is. 

"  Aht  arl  come  about,"  said  Gran'fer  Askell, 
pursuing  his  explanation  of  "  The  Joke," 
"  aht  arl  come  about  alung  o'  Woodman  J  ice 
bein'  took  sick  wi'  pains  at  'is  innards.  01 
seed  'um  day  afoor  the  fit  come  on,  an*  'e  weer 
otchlin'  alung  among  they  saplin's  'lung 
oover  be  Bethlehem  Hill  theer,  wheer  the  Noo 

339 


230  Cottage  Pie 

Plantation  be.  An*  when  oi  drared  neer  'um, 
oi  could  see  be  the  look  on  'um,  oi  could,  as 
aht  be  unkid  bahd  wi'  'um.  But  whather 
'tweer  the  groipes  insoide  on  'um,  or  whather 
'tweer  they  keepers'  wickednesses  what  drored 
'is  chin  up  so,  oi  never  roightly  knowed.  'E 
be  unkid  bahd  thaht  day,  at  anny  vents.  Oh 
dear  !  an'  oh  pray  !  The  words  as  aht  man 
used.  Oi  be  no  mute  meself,  mester,  come  to 
thaht.  But  Woodman  J  ice  'e  be  cleverer  nor 
ever  oi  knowed  'ow  to  be.  Hee,  pray  !  'Tweer 
good's  a  mericle  to  'ear  'un  ! 

"  *  The  red-bearded,  'Ampsheer-born  some- 
think,'  says  'e.  *  Look  theer,  Gran'fer,'  'e  says, 
'  look  theer  at  moi  nettin'.  Theer's  bin  a 
keeper  ' — *  keeper  '  wi'  a  B,  mester  ! — '  theer's 
bin  a  keeper  messin'  oover  wi'  'is  feet ' — 
*  feet '  wi'  a  B,  mester ! — '  theer's  bin  a  keeper 
messin'  oover  wi'  'is  feet,'  says  'e,  *  an'  aht'U 
take  a  fortnoight ' — *  fortnoight '  wi'  B,  K,  G, 
an*  arl  the  blessed  alf'bet,  mester — '  to  put 
thengs  roight,'  says  'e.  '  An'  aht'U  be  thaht 
MuUinger,'  'e  says,  '  for  sartin,'  says  'e,  '  'case 
oi  could  pick  the  ugly  footprints  of  'is  dahm 
great  feet  out  of  ten  thousand,'  says  'e,  *  they 
bein'  the  crookedest  dahm  thengs  in  Bucking- 
hamsheer,'  says  *e.  '  The  red-bearded,  'Amp- 
sheer-born somethink ! '  'e  says. 


Mr.  Mullinger  s  Joke  231 

"  An'  whather  'tweer  the  pain  insoide  'is 
stomach,  or  whather  'tweer  the  thought  o* 
Mullinger,  'is  face  drored  up  thaht  wonnerful 
you'd  'a'  thowt  'e  be  dooin'  it  to  startle  crows. 
*  Look  theer  at  moi  nettin*,'  says  'e.  '  Look 
theer,  wheer  the  corner's  all  stove  in  an'  the  top 
broke  off  !  Ever  yew  see  a  keeper  yat  as  could 
move  'isself  about  same's  ef  'e  didn't  be  the 
'oind-lags  of  a  biassed  elephant  ?  Ever  yew 
see  a  keeper  yat  as  could  step  oover  a  theng, 
same's  men  do  ?  Ever  yew  know  a  keeper  as 
didn't  rip,  an'  'ack,  an'  tear,  an'  smash  at 
every  tree,  an'  shoot,  an'  branch  as  come  'is 
way  ?  .  .  .  The  red-bearded,  'Ampsheer-born 
somethink  !  '  'e  says. 

"  *  What  you  thenk  'e  say  to  me  this 
marnin'  ?  "Squoire's  arders,"  'e  say,  "an' 
you'f  to  take  an'  clear  a  patch  o'  they  larch 
poles  be  the  Middle  Plantation,"  says  'e,  "  so's 
the  gorse  can  grow  an'  make  cover  for  the 
foxes,"  'e  say. 

"'Aht's  what  'e  said  to  me.  Begahd, 
'e  did.  "  Larch  poles''  'e  says — the  red- 
bearded  swine  —  meanin'  moi  ten -year 
shoots,  what  weer  laid  down  the  turn  o'  the 
century  be  me  meself — me  an'  moi  men. 
Cover  for  'is  foxes — the  'Ampsheer-born  sot. 
Oi  'im  toold  dahm  queck  wheer  'e  could  go 


232  Cottage  Pie 


for  cover — aht  oi  ded.  Aye,  an'  oi  toold  'im 
as  *e  could  take  'is  stinkin'  foxes  an'  'is  dirty- 
gun  alung  wi'  'um,  oi  did.  Larch  poles  I ' 
says  Woodman  Jice  ;    *  larch  poles  !  ' 

"  An  'e  otchled  alung  wi'  'is  chin  drard  up, 
an'  'is  knees  a-knockin',  an'  'is  yad  a-waggin*, 
an'  'e  shook  'is  oold  blackthorn  up  into  the 
skoi,  'e  did,  same's  ef  'e  rackoned  to  see  ole 
Mullinger  theer,  'ackin'  down  the  clouds  for 
cover. 

"  An*  what  wi'  thenkin'  on  oold  Mullinger, 
an'  what  wi'  groipes  an'  what  arl,  th'  oold 
faller  got  took  bahd,  'e  did.  An'  they  layed 
'im  up  a-bed  for  noigh  a  fortnoight. 

"  So  theer  'e  lay.  An'  one  foin  day  I  goes 
a  walk,  oi  does,  lung  be  Waterpark  an'  Plum 
Tree  Lane.  An'  as  oi'm  otchlin'  lung  theer  be 
Middle  Plantation,  what  should  oi  see  but 
Keeper  Mullinger  an'  arl  'is  men,  'lung  wi' 
couple  o'  fairrm  'ands,  an'  a  lot  o'  fellin'  tackle 
— ropes,  an'  saws,  an'  'atchets,  an'  that.  An' 
when  'e  seed  me,  ole  Mullinger,  as  be  a  rare 
one  for  'is  fun,  'e  look  at  me  sulemn.  '  We'se 
lendin'  a  'and  to  Woodman  Jice,'  says  'e  : 
*  'tendin'  to  'is  dooties  whoilst  'e  come  bahk 
agen.' 

"  An'  Mullinger's  men,  an'  fairrm  lahds,  an' 
oi,  we  laughed  ourselves  silly.    But  thaht  oold 


Mr.  MMllingeys  Joke  233 

MuUinger,  thoo  a  rare  block  for  'is  fun,  'e 
never  laughed.  An'  'im  an'  is  men,  they 
cleared  away  foive  acre — which  be  noigh  on 
airrf  the  Plantation. 

"  *  R  !  '  says  oold  MulUnger,  when  job  was 
done  at  and  of  a  s'enoight  or  soo,  '  R  !  '  'e  say, 
'  thes'U  soot  oold  Jice  a  treat,'  says  'e.  '  'E 
was  alius  a  rare  one,'  'e  say,  '  for  fencin*  an' 
that.  Oi  racken  theer's  fencin'  enough  theer 
to  reach  from  yare  to  Wandoover.* 

"  An'  wi*  thaht  'e  walk  away.  An*  pra- 
sently  'e  come  bahk  agen  wi'  a  le'l  droi,  red 
stick  in  'is  'ahnd,  what  'e  breathed  on  an' 
polished,  very  keerful  an'  /)flrteckler. 

"  So  oi  say  to  'um,  oi  say  :  '  Mester  MuUin- 
ger,' oi  say,  *  what  be  thaht  in  yewr  'ahnd — 
thaht  le'l  droi,  red  steck  theer  ?  ' 

"  '  Thaht  ?  '  'e  says.  '  Oh,  thaht  be  nar- 
think  much — jest  a  bit  o'  dead  tweg  loik  what 
oi  pecked  orfen  a  oold  dead  tree  what  lays  in 
the  park  at  Tottenden  'All.  Ever  you  'eerd 
o'  Mester  Gladstone,'  says  'e,  *  'im  what 
belung  to  Parleyment,  an'  stopped  the  sode- 
ger's  beer  ?  ' 

"  *  Oi  heerd  tell  o'  the  genelman  !  '  says  oi. 

"  *  Well,'  says  Mr.  MuUinger,  *  thes  yare 
droid-up  oold  tree,'  says  'e,  *  thaht  was  cut 
down  be  Mester  Gladstone.     So  they  kep  it 


234  Cottage  Pie 

theer  to  thes  day — makes  a  sorter  objec'  of  et, 
they  do.  An*  so,  bein'  a  frand,  as  yew  moight 
say,  to  Woodman  Jice,  oi  lops  arf  this  le'l 
tweg  yare  to  give  'um  for  a  prasent,'  says  'e. 

"  '  What'U  'e  do  wi'  ut  ?  '  oi  says. 

"  '  Do  wi*  ut  ?  '  says  Mr.  MuUinger.  '  Ow 
the  'uU  should  oi  know  ?  .  .  .  Oi  thowt  it  'ud 
do  to  aggerivate  *um.' 

"  Mester  MuUinger  'e  be  a  rare  one  for  'is 
fun. 

"  But  that  theer  joke  of  the  le'l  droi,  red 
steck,  it  never  come  to  nowt. 

"  Fust  day  oold  Woodman  Jice  come  outer 
bad,  oi  goos  a  wark  wi'  'um — bein'  neigh- 
bours, loike.  *  We'se  goo  lung  be  Meddle 
Plantation,'  says  oi.  An'  'e  nods  'is  yad.  I 
thowt  then  as  'e  be  a  soight  less  loively  in  'is 
manner  nor  aver  afoor  oi'd  seed  'um.  'E  weer 
arkid  loike,  an'  sleepy — same's  a  man  what's 
shipped  a  pint. 

**  An'  when  we  come  be  Plum  Tree  Lane, 
an'  Mester  MuUinger  otchled  up,  oold  Jice  'e 
never  so  much  as  'peared  to  see  'um.  An' 
when  oold  MuUinger  'e  give  'um  oover  the  le'l 
droi,  red  stick  what  I  spoke  about,  'e  never 
so  much  as  'peared  to  see  ihaht  neether. 

**  *  Aht  be  a  steck  from  Belly  Gladstone's 
elum/  says  Mester  MuUinger.    '  I  browt  it  wi* 


Mr.  Mullinger's  Joke  235 

me,'  'e  says,  *  arl  the  way  from  Tottenden  'All/ 
says  'e,  *  for  to  gev  yew  for  a  prasent.  Aht 
was  'is  'obby,  aht  was — cuttin'  trees  down, 
'E  weer  *andy  at  it,  too.' 

"  '  Aye,'  says  Woodman  Jice,  '  I  'eerd  tell 
on  'um.  'E  was  a  selly  oold  somethink ! ' 
An'  wi'  that  'e  throos  the  le'l  droi,  red  steck 
be'oind  'um,  an'  otchles  on.  An'  Mester 
MuUinger  'e  lairrfed ! 

"  Soo,  prasinly,  we  makes  the  bend,  an' 
Woodman  Jice  'e  gets  a  soight  at  the  Meddle 
Plantation,  what  loies  beyand.  An'  noigh  on 
yairrf  on  et  was  cleared  an'  bare,  wi'  larch 
poles  lyin'  all  ways  all  about  it,  same's  the  'air 
upon  a  love-sick  tom-cat.  An'  Woodman 
Jice  'e  draps  'is  stick. 

"  'Aht  be  Meddle  Plantation  oover  yander  I ' 
'e  say. 

"  *  Aye  ! '  says  oi,  as  could  yairrdly  speak 
for  lairrfin',  '  aye  !  '  says  oi,  '  aht  be  Meddle 
Plantings,  sure  enough.  They  cleared  it  arf 
for  cover  for  the  foxes.' 

"  '  Aye  ! '  says  'e. 

"  An'  'e  pecks  up  'is  oold  blackthorn,  an' 
otchles  on.  *  Thaht  be  Meddle  Plantings,' 
says  'e  agen,  when  we  come  close.  *  Oi  weer 
sixty-eight,'  says  'e,  *  the  day  we  finished 
settin'  it.'    An'  'e  otchles  on. 


236  Cottage  Pie 

"  When  we  come  up  to  the  Plantings,  'e 
begun  to  show  'is  temper — kickin'  at  stumps 
an*  thaht  wi*  'is  foot,  an'  drorin'  'is  face  up 
somethink  unkid,  same's  oi  toold  yew.  Then 
*e  lean  down  to  the  ground,  'e  do,  an*  sets  to 
f  eelin'  at  the  stumps  an'  stubble,  an*  scratchin' 
at  the  bits  o'  gorse,  an'  that. 

** '  This  be  Meddle  Plantings,*  says  'e — 
stoopid  loike. 

"  An*  then  'is  temper  gets  the  upper  'and. 
*Is  legs  come  over  wobberly,  same's  the  toime 
oi  toold  yew,  when  oi  seed  'um  be  the  nettin's. 
An'  'e  wagged  'is  chin,  an'  shook  'is  selly  oold 
fist,  an*  says,  all  quivery  : 

"  *  The  red-bearded,  'Ampsheer-born  some- 
think ! '  'e  say. 

"  An*  wi'  that  *e  lets  'is  choildish  temper 
loose.  An'  'e  throwed  up  'is  oold  blackthorn 
into  the  yair  ;  an'  'e  throwed  'isself  to  earth. 
And  according  and  in  consequence  'is  airrm 
come  cover  withered.  ... 

"  Such  a  selly  oold  mahn  ! 

"  An'  no  one  dursn't  so  much  as  whesper 
*  Meddle  Plantings '  to  'um,  even  now.  .  .  . 
Hee,  pray !  Yew  airst  Mester  MulHnger. 
'E'll  tell  yew.  .  .  .  Rare  one  for  'is  jook  be 
Mester  MuUinger." 


XXVI 
A  DEAL 


Jack  o'  Clubs,  the  rascal  tally-man,  is  out 
on  the  road  again.    I  met  him  at  Sly  Corner. 

He  was  accompanied  by  a  set  of  harness,  a 
tax-cart,  and  his  brother  Ben.  Jack  pulled 
the  cart  and  Ben  pushed  it.  The  harness  sat 
inside. 

"  Good  arternoon  to  you,  sir,"  said  Jack  o' 
Clubs.  **  Can  I  sell  you  a  le'l  ole-fashioned 
butter-tub,  sir  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day,"  I  replied. 

"  Can  I  sell  you  a  le'l  ole-fashioned  carving- 
knife,  sir  ?    A  real  antikew  le'l  piece,  sir  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day,"  I  repeated. 

"  Can  I  sell  you  a  le'l  ole  pair  o'  garden 
shears  ?  "  persisted  Jack  o'  Clubs. 

"  Or  a  real  ole-fashioned  lid  orf  a  warming- 
pan  ?  "  added  brother  Ben. 

"  I  am  penniless.  You  can  sell  me  nothing," 
I  replied  decisively. 

"  Then,"  said  brother  Ben,  *'  can  I  carry 
your  basket,  sir  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  I  suggested,  "  that  you 
have  enough  to  carry  as  it  is." 
/  237 


238  Cottage  Pie 

"  Not  be  no  manner  o'  means,"  said  Jack 
o'  Clubs.    "  Can  we  give  you  a  lift,  sir  ?  " 

Not  wishing  to  be  mistaken  for  a  circus  or 
a  slave  owner,  I  declined  this  offer.  There 
followed  a  brief  silence,  broken  by  Jack  o* 
Clubs,  who  said  suggestively  :  "  Whene'er 
you  finished  with  that  cigarette  end,  sir,  jes* 
take  an'  throw  it  into  moi  le'l  ole  cart  here." 

We  accordingly  struck  a  bargain  in  cigarettes, 
and  I  walked  along  by  the  side  of  Jack  and 
Ben  until  we  came  to  the  cross-roads.  Here 
we  should  have  parted  ;  but  Mr.  William 
Dunn,  who  farms  the  Cross  Roads  farm, 
happened  to  be  standing  at  his  gate,  and  it 
appeared  that  we  all  had  business  to  do  with 
Mr.  Dunn — I  as  a  purchaser  of  eggs,  and  Jack 
o'  Clubs  (with  whom  was  his  learned  brother 
Ben)  in  his  capacity  as  horse-dealer. 

Jack  o'  Clubs  having  performed  a  cere- 
monious salute,  approached  the  farmer  side- 
ways, wearing  a  look  of  anxiety. 

"  That  be  a  nice,  long-'eaded  bitch  you  got 
there,  Mr.  Dunn,"  said  Jack  o'  Clubs. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Dunn. 

"  I  aren't  never  see  a  prettier  le'l  bitch  in 
this  parish,"  continued  Jack  o'  Clubs. 

"  Nor  in  this  county,"  added  his  brother.. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Dunn. 


A  Deal  22,9 

"  She  don't  bite,  I  reckon,"  mused  Jack  o* 
Clubs,  to  which  supposition  the  farmer  offered 
no  comment. 

"  Not  'er  !  "  cried  brother  Ben.  "  She  be 
one  o'  they  'igh-bred,  good-tempered  sorts." 

**  She  look  a  good-tempered  sort,"  assented 
Jack  o*  Clubs. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Dunn. 

"  Good  dog  !  "  cried  Jack  o'  Clubs.  "  Pretty 
lady  !  Whoa,  me  lady  !  Pretty  lady  !  Will 
you  call  'er  in,  sir  ?  " 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Dunn, "  whenl've  a  mind  to." 

"  A  nice,  long-'eaded  dog,"  murmured  Jack 
o'  Clubs. 

"  That  he  a  dog,"  assented  brother  Ben. 

"  Beggin*  yere  pardon,  sir,"  continued  Jack 
o*  Clubs,  "  I  be  wishful  to  speak  to  you,  Mr. 
Dunn." 

"  Speak  up,  then,"  said  Mr.  Dunn. 

Jack  o'  Clubs  advanced  one  inch,  looking 
sideways  at  the  nice,  long-headed  dog. 

"  Dog  won't  interfere  with  you  ...  so 
long  as  you  don't  move,"  said  Farmer  Dunn. 
Speak  up." 

"  I  come  about  that  le'l  roan  cob  of  yourn," 
said  Jack  o*  Clubs. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Farmer  Dunn. 

"  That  pore  le'l  roan  pony,"  continued  Jack 


240  Cottage  Pie 

o'  Clubs  ;  "  'im  what  be  so  shockin*  broke  at 
the  knee.  That  le'l  ole-fashioned,  short- 
winded  pony,  I  mean." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Dunn. 

"  That  pore  le'l  ole  thing  that  be  so  pitiable 
to  look  at  when  'e  goo  out  wi*  the  milk-cart," 
continued  Jack  o'  Clubs. 

*'  That  theer  twenty-yare-oold  pony,"  ex- 
plained his  brother. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Dunn. 

"  Well,"  continued  Jack  o'  Clubs,  "  we  'ear 
*e  be  for  sale.  Good  girl !  Pretty  girl. 
Steady !  Whoa  !  What  a  nice  long  'ead 
that  dog  'ave  got,  to  be  sure." 

"  We  lorst  our  own  little  pony,"  stated 
brother  Ben. 

"  'Tis  such  shockin'  bad  times  to  be  sure, 
sir,"  said  Jack  o*  Clubs. 

"  Oi  aren't  never  knowed  trade  to  be  so  bad 
this  ten  year  past." 

"  Or  twanty  yeer  past,"  added  brother  Ben. 

"  We  lost  our  pore  ole  father  Christmas 
time,"  pursued  Jack. 

■    "  And  now  we  lost  the  pore  le'l  pony," 
sighed  his  brother. 

**  And  the  rent  due,"  said  Jack  o*  Clubs ; 
"  and  the  income  tax  gone  up.  'Ow  be  us 
pore  chaps  to  make  a  livin'  ?  " 


A  Deal  241 

Farmer  Dunn  offering  no  reply  to  this 
question,  Jack  o'  Clubs  experimented  with  a 
new  one. 

"  What  be  you  arstin'  for  the  pore  ole 
pony  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Farmer  Dunn  said  :   "  Fifteen  guineas." 

"  'Tis  light  work,  ourn,"  continued  Jack  o* 
Clubs,  who  had  apparently  not  heard  the 
answer  to  his  question.  "  All  we  want  is  some 
pore  le'l  broken-down  ole  thing ;  some  aged 
pore  thing,  we  want,  as  be  past  doin'  reg'lar 
work.  Any  wore-out  ole  thing  '11  do,  jes*  so's 
'e  kin  draw  the  cart  about  from  door  to  door 
while  we  tries  to  sell  a  le'l  ole-fashioned  curi- 
osity or  two  to  pay  the  rent." 

"  Fifteen  guineas,"  said  Mr.  Dunn. 

"  Jokin'  apart,"  rejoined  the  tally-man, 
"  we  bin  talkin*  things  over  and  we  rackon 
we  could  get  a  pound  or  two  together  and  buy 
that  pore  ole  pony  o'  yourn — 'tis  light  work, 
ourn.  If  you  was  to  let  us  'ave  'im  fur  a 
pound  or  two,  we  could  pay  for  'im  be 
March." 

**  Fifteen  guineas — cash  down,"  said  Mr. 
Dunn. 

"  Fi-pound  fifteen,  did  you  say,  sir  ? " 
demanded  Jack  o'  Clubs. 

"  Come  'ere,  Nell !  "  said  Mr.  Dunn. 


242  Cottage  Pie 

Jack  o'  Clubs  stepped  back.  "  You  are 
trained  the  dog  to  be  obedient,  I  see,  sir,"  he 
remarked.  "  Can  we  'ave  the  pony  for  a  day 
or  two  on  trial,  Mr.  Dunn  ?  " 

The  farmer  shook  his  head. 

"  Can  we  take  the  pore,  le'l  ole  thing  for  a 
spin  along  the  common  there  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Farmer  Dunn  ;  "  nor  you  can't 
jest  try  'er  up  the  road.  I  'eerd  about  you 
two  from  the  missis,  last  night.  You  come 
round  'ere  with  that  same  ole  outfit  what  you 
got  there  now  and  you  tell  'er  as  I  be  met  with 
you  on  me  way  to  market.  You  tells  'er  as  I 
say  you  can  'ave  out  the  pony  to  try  along  the 
road.  Good  job  for  me  moi  missis  be  a  York- 
shire woman.  Y'  ugly  pair  of  lyin'  rascals, 
you." 

"  Now  I  come  to  look  a  le'l  closer,  sir," 
said  the  tally-man  quietly,  *'  that  certainly 
be  another  gentleman  we  met  at  market,  sir. 
But  the  likeness  be  uncommon  close,  sir. 
D'ye  see  the  difference  now,  Ben  ?  " 

**  Certainly  I  do,"  replied  Ben. 

"  When  I  spoke  to  the  ganelman  yisterday, 
I  could  'a  swore  as  that  be  Mr.  Dunn." 

"  Anybody  could  'a  took  their  oath  on  it," 
asserted  brother  Ben. 

"  Anyone  can  see  now,  though,"  continued 


A  Deal  243 

Jack  o'  Clubs,  "  as  the  ganelman  we  spoke  to 
yisterday  be  a  shorter  ganelman." 

"  And  stouter,"  said  Ben. 

"  Nor  yet  so  fresh-complexioned  and  'and- 
some  like,"  added  Jack.  **  Will  you  call  the 
le'l  dog  to  come  back  to  you,  sir  ? — sich  a 
good-lookin'  dog  as  that  be,  to  be  sure." 

"  We  could  scrape  up  ten  guineas  if  the 
ganelman  would  give  us  time,"  remarked  Ben. 

"  Fifteen  guineas,"  said  Mr.  Dunn. 

"  We  must  'ave  some  sort  of  le'l  ole  pony 
— pore  as  we  be,"  explained  Jack.  "  Tis  no 
manner  o'  use  for  to  seek  an'  foUer  our  trade 
without  you  got  a  pair  o'  sharves  an'  some  old 
thing  between  them.  Will  you  take  twelve 
guineas,  Mr.  Dunn — 'arf  down  ?  " 

"  Fifteen  guineas — cash,"  said  Mr.  Dunn. 

"  Ask  the  ganelman  if  'e'll  book  five 
guineas  fur  the  time  bein',"  suggested  brother 
Ben. 

"  Ah  !  "  murmured  Jack  o*  Clubs. 

The  farmer  stretched  his  arms,  and  yawned. 

**  We  should  Hke  to  try  'im  round  the  com- 
mon, jest  for  satisfaction's  sake,"  stated  Jack 
o'  Clubs. 

"  Pay  the  fifteen  guineas  and  the  cob's 
yourn — to-night,"  said  Farmer  Dunn.  "  Then 
you  can  try  'im  where  you  like," 


244  Cottage  Pie 

"  We  got  a  fancy  to  try  'im  before  we  buy 
'im — ^jest  for  satisfaction's  sake.  It's  the 
reg'lar  thing,  Mr.  Dunn." 

"  I  got  a  fancy,  jest  for  satisfaction's  sake," 
said  Mr.  Dunn,  **  not  to  let  you  do  the  reg'lar 
thing.  You  are  done  it  so  reg'lar,  folks  'ave 
learned  to  be  careful." 

Jack  o'  Clubs  sighed  loudly. 

"  'Tis  'ard  lines,"  said  his  brother,  "  when 
we  'appen  to  are  got  the  cart  and  'arness  so 
'andy  and  convenient." 

"  And  the  rent  due,"  added  Jack  o*  Clubs  ; 
*'  and  pore  father  dead.  'Tis  cruel  'ard  to 
make  a  livin'.  Could  we  try  the  pore  ole  pony 
to-night,  sir  ?  " 

**  Yes,"  said  the  farmer.  **  Fifteen  gui- 
neas." 

Jack  looked  at  Ben.    Ben  looked  at  Jack. 

"  Well,  we'll  'ave  to  pay,"  said  Jack. 

"  Yes,"  echoed  Ben,  with  gloom,  "  we'll 
*ave  to  pay." 

The  farmer,  caUing  Nell  to  heel,  walked  to 
the  stable  door. 

Jack  o'  Clubs,  opening  his  greasy  waistcoat, 
brought  forth  a  bag  of  sovereigns. 

"  Dear  !    Dear  !  "  sighed  Jack  o'  Clubs. 


XXVII 
A  FRUSTRATED  ELOPEMENT 

I  HAD  come  up  from  my  little  bolt-hole  in 
Buckinghamshire,  and  I  had  dined  unsatis- 
factorily in  Fleet  Street.  The  London  fair- 
ways, which  were  full  of  mud  and  motor- 
omnibuses  and  pink  newspapers,  disgusted 
me.  The  chattering,  breastless  women  and 
their  stupid  men  disgusted  me.  I  thought 
I  would  crawl  back  to  my  lodging  and  spend 
the  otherwise  profitless  hours  in  consultation 
with  the  late  Mr.  William  Cowper.  I  had 
him  securely  locked  up  in  my  bag. 

But  as  I  crossed  a  narrow  street  which 
connected  one  stream  of  motor-'buses  with 
another  stream  of  motor-'buses  I  was  stopped 
by  a  young  and  brightly  decorated  woman, 
who  took  my  arm  and  said  : 

"  Good  evenin*,  duckie  !  " 

You  can  imagine  what  sort  of  woman  this 
was.  I  pushed  her  roughly  from  me,  and  a 
moment  afterwards  was  sorry,  for  the  little 
pig-like,  stupid  eyes,  beneath  their  plastered 
lids,  looked  tearful  and  afraid.  Furthermore, 
I  knew  that  I  had  seen  those  eyes  before. 

a4S 


246  Cottage  Pie 

Then  "  Walk  with  me  a  step,"  said  the 
young  woman.  Her  manner  was  not  brazen  ; 
it  was  a  pleading,  anxious  manner,  and  she 
glanced  about  her  with  a  hunted  look. 

"  Oh,  walk  with  me  a  step,"  she  said  again. 
"  Oh,  pray  now,  walk  with  me.  Oi  be  fair 
fritted." 

Like  a  sudden  projectile  the  truth  crossed 
into  me.  I  knew  her  language.  I  knew  her 
name.  Glancing  up  the  little  street,  I  saw 
that  it  was  presently  occupied  by  but  one 
other  person — an  ugly  man  with  pimples,  who 
stood  beneath  a  lamp-post  and  glowered  at 
us.  He  didn't  seem  to  matter.  I  thought  to 
myself,  "  The  coast  is  clear  ;  I  will  risk  my 
reputation  with  the  clergy." 

And  so  I  offered  the  girl  my  arm  ;  she  took 
it  eagerly.  "  Let  us  hotchle  up  the  road," 
I  said. 

The  girl  was  too  stupid  to  make  any  matter 
of  this  word,  which  I  had  carefully  employed. 
And  so  I  said  to  her  point-blank,  "  You  are 
a  Bovery  ?  " 

"  Me  mother  be  a  Bovery,"  she  answered 
quietly.  A  perception  of  the  importance 
attaching  to  this  question  stole  gradually 
into  her  dull  head.  She  looked  at  me  wonder- 
ingly,  with  her  mouth  open,  and  after  some 


A  Frustrated  Elopement       247 

time  she  said :  "  Then  be  you  from  the 
'Underds  ?  " 

"I  be,"  repHed  your  servant. 

At  which  the  girl  began  to  cry. 

We  crossed  the  road  and  scaled  the  steps  of 
an  illuminated  hostelry.  A  man  was  standing 
at  the  door,  and  I  was  surprised  to  recognise 
in  him  my  friend  of  the  pimples — the  man 
who  had  stood  beneath  a  lamp-post  and 
watched  us.  The  breath  of  this  person 
offended  me,  and  I  moved  him  to  one  side. 
He  did  not  resent  this  action,  but  leered  at 
me  with  an  indescribably  offensive  expression 
of  good-fellowship. 

We  went  into  the  tawdry  common-room  of 
this  "  hotel,"  and  were  conducted  to  a  vacant 
table,  where  some  purple  Hquid  was  presently 
brought  to  us. 

The  girl  had  been  quietly  drying  her  eyes, 
and  when  next  I  glanced  at  her  there  were 
little  cakes  of  flour  all  round  them.  She 
looked  absurd. 

**  Oi  be  niece  to  Walter  Bo  very,  what  be 
bailiff  at  the  abbey,"  she  said. 

"  He's  a  fine  old  chap,"  I  exclaimed. 

"  And  do  you  know  Gert  and  Gert's  le'l 
babby  twins  ?  "  inquired  the  girl. 

"  Rather  !  "  I  said. 


248  Cottage  Pie 

"  Be  they  growed  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  be  vastly  growed,"  I  said. 

"  Fancy,  now — the  le'l  rascal  chaps  !  " 

"  Me  mo'er  she  married  a  second,"  con- 
tinued my  companion,  "a  psalm  -  singin* 
swine  out  o'  Kent.  He  druv  me  to  this,  the 
noun." 

**  That's  a  lie,"  I  answered.  "  You  were 
stupid  and  jealous,  and  walked  about  the 
village  spreading  wicked  tales.  You  left  the 
shop  in  a  temper,  and  came  to  London  to 
look  for  a  place.  I  live  near  Ambledon  (this 
was  her  village),  and  I  know.  Couldn't  you 
find  a  place  ?  " 

By  way  of  answer,  the  girl  began  to  cry 
again.  So  that  of  necessity  I  looked  the  other 
way,  and  found  myself  confronted  by  the 
leering  gaze  of — Pimples.  I  scowled  at  the 
man,  and  he  transferred  his  scrutiny  to  my 
companion.  But  he  did  not  smile  at  her.  She 
looked  up  and  caught  his  eye,  and  her  sobs 
suddenly  ceased — stuck  in  her  throat,  as  it 
were.  She  gradually  twisted  her  features  into 
an  automatic  sort  of  smile  and  turned  to  me 
with  a  mirth  which  was  more  boisterous  than 
real.  "  Wake  up,  ye  arkid  fool,"  she  said  ; 
**  you  be  so  unkid  sorrowful ;  you  be  givin* 
me  the  'ump." 


A  Frustrated  Elopement       249 

"  Couldn't  you  find  a  place  ? "  I  said 
again. 

**  They  twins — be  they  well  favoured  ?  " 

"  Fair  fine,"  I  answered.  "  Couldn't  you 
find  a  place  ?  " 

She  cast  a  hurried  glance  in  the  direction 
of  Pimples.  Still  maintaining  the  "  gay  life  " 
air,  she  said,  in  little  breathless,  painful 
gasps  :  "  'Twas  finding  the  place  as  ruined 
me.  'Twas  the  woman  we  call  Mar.  .  .  .  She 
met  me  to  the  station.  .  .  .  Here,  in  London. 
.  .  .  She  looked  so  turr'ble  genteel.  .  .  .  She 
was  for  takin'  pity  on  me  ...  for  findin'  me 
a  lodging." 

"  I  shall  take  you  back  to  Ambledon  to- 
night," I  said. 

The  girl  looked  sharply  at  me.  "  I  dursn't. 
.  .  .  Oi  be  fritted,"  she  exclaimed.  "  You 
can  come  'ome  'long  o'  me." 

I  told  the  painted  dummy  that — I  don't 
know  what  I  told  her ;  but  she  at  last  was 
brought  to  understand  my  meaning.  And 
she  was,  of  course,  offended. 

"  Oi  ain't  wan  tin'  ye're  comp'ny,"  she  said. 
"  You  be  a  low-sperited  swine.  .  .  .  But 
there'll  be  a  row  atome  to-night  unless — un- 
less.  There  !   I  aren't  'ad  no  luck  lately." 

"  You're  having  some  to-night,"   I  said. 


250  Cottage  Pie 

"  Fm  taking  you  back  to  Ambledon  to-night. 
Your  Uncle  Walter  will  take  care  of  you." 

"  Oi  dursn't.  'E'll  gi'  me  a  'oiding,  Uncle 
Walt  will.    And  the  folk'll  talk  so  and  all." 

"  It  can't  be  worse  than  this,  can  it  ?  "  I 
inquired. 

"  Oi  be  fritted,"  said  the  girl. 

"  You're  coming,  anyhow,"  I  insisted. 

"  Oi  be  fritted  !  "  she  exclaimed  again,  and 
again  began  to  cry. 

As  before,  I  looked  away,  and  was  in  time 
to  notice  Pimples  very  deliberately  rise  from 
his  seat,  lurch  across  the  reeking  room,  and 
plump  himself  down  at  a  vacant  table,  exactly 
next  to  ours.  And  once  again  my  companion, 
with  a  gasp,  forced  back  her  sobs  and  turned 
towards  me  with  pretended  mirth.  The  re- 
flection forced  itself  upon  me  that  Pimples 
was  not  the  wholly  unimportant  animal  which 
I  had  at  first  supposed  him  to  be.  I  examined 
him  steadily,  and  he  returned  the  look  ;  but 
this  time  he  did  not  leer.  There  was  a  distinct 
malevolence  in  his  expression. 

Therefore,  in  a  manner  sufficiently  like  that 
of  "  the  Boys,"  I  turned  to  the  girl  and  joked 
with  her.    It  is  called  "  joking." 

I  also  paid  a  waiter  for  the  beverages  which 
we  had  not  consumed,  and  raising  my  voice  I 


A  Frustrated  Elopement       251 

said  to  the  lady :  "  Where  did  you  say  you 
lived  ?  " 

She  told  me  the  address,  and  I  then  said, 
still  talking  loud  :  "  We  will  get  a  cab  and  go 
there." 

We  therefore  made  our  way  to  the  street 
and  called  a  hansom-cab.  I  told  him  to  take 
us  to  a  certain  railway-station.  And  a  voice 
by  my  side  said  : 

"  Cappie,  I  forpid  it !  Dis  man  is  eloping 
mit  my  vife."  And  looking  round,  I  met  the 
breath  of  Pimples. 

Then  there  was  a  tiresome  sort  of  scuffle. 
And  policemen  appeared.  And  many  ruffians. 
And  some  more  women.  And  everybody 
shouted  at  me.  And  my  late  companion  took 
the  arm  of  Pimples.  And  somebody  threw 
some  mud.  And  there  issued  from  the  crowd 
an  old,  grey-bearded  man,  with  flaming  eyes, 
who  climbed  upon  the  step  of  the  cab  and 
shoved  into  my  hand  a  small  red  book, entitled 
"  Pleas  for  Purity." 

So  I  ordered  the  cabman  to  drive  on. 


XXVIII 
THE  BODGER 


"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Gilks,  "  you  could  not 
rightly  call  me  a  plumber,  nor  you  could  not 
rightly  call  me  a  carpenter ;  I  'aven't  never 
been  properly  apprenticed.  I  be  what  they 
call  a  Bodger." 

"  And  how  would  you  define  this  term,  Mr. 
Gilks  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Sir  ?  "  said  Mr.  Gilks. 

"  I  mean  to  say,  what  is  a  Bodger  ?  " 

*'  Sir,"  responded  Mr.  Gilks,  "  if  anybody 
do  plumbing,  but  you  cannot  rightly  call  them 
a  plumber;  and  if  anybody  do  a  bit  at  cabinet- 
making  and  joinery,  but  you  cannot  really 
call  them  a  carpenter  ;  and  if  anybody  mend 
watches  or  boots,  but  you  cannot  rightly  call 
them  a  watchmaker  nor  a  snob,  that  be  what 
they  call  a  Bodger,  sir  !  " 

*'  It  seems  a  pity,  Mr.  Gilks,"  I  suggested, 
"that,  possessing  such  varied  talents,  you 
could  not  arrange  to  concentrate  them." 

*'  Sir  ?  "  said  Mr.  Gilks. 

"  I  say  that  you  would  probably  have  done 
252 


The  Bodger  253 

better  by  sticking  to  one  trade  instead  of 
messing  about  with  so  many." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  responded  Mr.  Gilks,  "  I  have 
alius  bin  that  weakly.  No  man  can  go  through 
a  reg'lar  apprenticeship  when  'is  chest  be 
weak  the  same  as  mine." 

I  looked  at  Mr.  Gilks  again,  and  perceived 
that  he  certainly  did  look  pale  and  pinched. 

"  Not,  mind  you,"  continued  Mr.  Gilks, 
"  but  what  I  arn't  got  a  trade  of  me  own,  if  it 
come  to  that.  I  be  a  egg-dealer  be  trade. 
What  they  calls  a  higgler.  But  when  your 
chest  be  weak,  the  same  as  mine,  you  cannot 
do  much  at  the  higglin' .  I  makes  a  little  some- 
times be  mendin*  water-butts.  I  got  a  knack 
wi'  water-butts." 

**  Ah  !  "  I  murmured  ;  "  that  reminds  me. 
Your  present  proposal,  I  understand,  is  to 
bodge  my  water-butt  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  assented  Mr.  Gilks.  "To  fix 
your  water-butt  so's  it  don't  leak." 

"No,  really! "  I  exclaimed,  being  overjoyed 
at  the  prospect,  for  I  was  tired  of  plugging  up 
the  wretched  thing  with  dusters.  "  If  you  can 
do  that,  Mr.  Gilks,  I  shall  be  highly  grateful  to 
you,  and  you  may  name  your  own  reward." 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Gilks,  "I  don't  trouble 
narthun  about  that,  sir."    If  his  starved  little 


254  Cottage  Pie 

face  had  not  belied  the  thought,  you  might 
have  supposed  him  to  be  some  sort  of  Person 
who  mended  water-butts  for  recreation  and 
glory. 

"  There  are  one  or  two  other  odd  jobs  about 
the  place  which  you  might  attend  to  if  you  pull 
this  off  all  right,"  I  thoughtfully  suggested. 

"  So  I  see,  sir,"  responded  Mr.  Gilks.  **  That 
there  lawn-mower  what  you  be  usin'  don't  run 
same  as  she  should  do.  I  mend  lawn-mowers." 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Gilks,"  I  mildly 
observed,  **  she  struck  me  as  cutting  ab- 
normally well  this  morning." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Gilks. 
"  That  machine  'ave  got  what  I  call  a  hiccup. 
No  machine  can  be  working  proper  when  she 
run  with  what  I  call  a  hiccup.  Can  I  trouble 
you  for  a  'ammer,  sir  ?  " 

I  provided  Mr.  Gilks  with  the  hammer,  also, 
at  his  further  request,  with  some  galvanised 
wire  and  a  pair  of  nippers.  "  Do  you  pro- 
pose," I  inquired  of  Mr.  Gilks,  "  to  tie  up  the 
leak  with  wire  ?  Because  I  don't  think  that 
would  work." 

"Jest  you  leave  it  to  me,"  responded  Mr. 
Gilks,  as  with  a  cheerful  smile  he  clambered 
up  the  side  of  the  water-butt. 

I   returned   to   the   lawn-mower.     I   had 


The  Bodger  255 

pushed  her  once  up  and  was  turning  to  come 
down  again  when  my  progress  was  suddenly 
arrested  by  the  sound  of  a  tremendous,  un- 
paralleled bang !  Mr.  Gilks  had  burst  the 
water-butt. 

Having  gaffed  the  little  gentleman  and 
disentangled  him  from  a  complicated  en- 
vironment of  galvanised  wire,  iron  hooping, 
and  wooden  staves,  I  was  at  leisure  to 
observe  that  he  had  damaged  his  forehead. 
By  the  application  of  liniment,  cotton-wool, 
and  whisky  with  soda,  we  were  able  to 
defeat  the  probability  of  fatal  results  from 
this  wound.  The  Bodger  then  proclaimed 
his  intention  of  dealing  with  the  lawn-mower. 

I  endeavoured  to  dissuade  Mr.  Gilks  from 
the  prosecution  of  this  enterprise.  I  repre- 
sented to  him  that,  weakened  as  he  was  from 
loss  of  blood  and  from  his  recent  exertions ; 
shaken  in  nerve  as  the  result  of  his  late 
terrible  experience,  it  would  be  folly  to  em- 
bark at  once  upon  a  new  adventure  ;  one 
fraught,  perhaps,  with  even  greater  dangers. 
The  impulsive  soul  of  Mr.  Gilks,  however, 
would  brook  no  counsels  of  precaution.  He 
flung  himself  upon  the  lawn-mower. 

I  will  not  trust  myself  to  write  at  length 
upon  the  painful  results  of  this  action.    It  is 


256  Cottage  Pie 

a  subject  upon  which  I  find  it  difficult  to 
express  myself  with  gentleness.  Mr.  Gilks 
entirely  destroyed  my  lawn-mower — my  well- 
beloved.  Having  minutely  dissected  it,  he 
bent  the  blades  until  they  attained  a  com- 
plicated shape  of  his  own  invention.  He  then 
essayed  to  reassemble  the  parts ;  but  after 
two  hours  of  strenuous  labour  he  had  produced 
a  chaotic — nothing  ;  a  hopeless  conglomera- 
tion of  twisted  bolts  ;  a  concatenation  of 
spikes  and  spirals  which  I  have  since  sold  to 
the  butcher  for  making  sausages.  He  also 
amputated  a  portion  of  his  right  thumb.  I 
deliberately  cursed  him  and  he  went  away. 

That  night  I  did  not  sleep.  Fear,  as  pro- 
fessional writers  express  it,  gripped  me  by  the 
throat.  I  had  suddenly  remembered  the 
existence  of  an  "  Employers*  Liability  Act." 
What  if  Mr.  Gilks  should  develop  lock-jaw  and 
die  ?  Should  I  be  expected — nay,  legally 
compelled — to  support  for  ever  afterwards 
his  wife  and  seven  children  ?  I  am  not  a  law- 
yer and  I  did  not  know.  It  was,  I  thought,  a 
heavy  price  to  pay  for  one  day's  mild  amuse- 
ment. I  wondered  whether  it  was  too  late  to 
protect  myself  against  the  persecutions  of  Mr. 
Gilks  by  insurance,  and  whether,  in  so  doing, 
I    should    be    committing    Arson — or    is    it 


The  Bociger  257 

Simony  ?  I  was  not  a  lawyer  and  I  did  not 
know. 

At  last  the  grey  dawn  broke.  Wild  and 
haggard,  I — I  lay  on  my  back  and  watched 
the  ceiling.  Suddenly  my  anxious  ear  de- 
tected a  fearful,  ominous  sound — a  click  of  the 
gate-latch.  Sick,  but  quite  calm,  I  bounced 
out  of  bed  and  flung  myself  into  the  garden, 
ready — even  eager — to  meet  our  village  con- 
stable. All  that  I  did  meet,  however,  was 
Mr.  Gilks. 

You  cannot  imagine  with  what  joy  I  saw 
his  weazened  face.  If  I  could  purr  I  would 
have  purred  over  him  ;  if  I  had  possessed 
another  lawn-mower  I  would  gladly  have  lent 
it  him  to  play  with.  I  was  so  glad  to  see 
him. 

He  had  come,  the  simple  fellow,  to  remind 
me  that  I  had  not  paid  him  for  his  labours  of 
the  preceding  day.  And  to  suggest,  with 
delicacy,  that  an  offering  in  compensation  for 
the  injuries  which  he  had  obtained  in  my 
service  would  be  accepted  cheerfully. 

When  we  had  settled  these  matters  to 
the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Gilks,  that  talented 
mechanic  proceeded  to  ask  for  further  em- 
ployment. I  pointed  out  that  such  small 
contracts  as   I   had  to  offer  did  not   seem 


258  Cottage  Pie 

to  bring  him  any  luck.  Mr.  Gilks  admitted 
the  truth  of  this  proposition.  He  attributed 
it  to  my  place  of  residence.  **  I  *ave  knowed 
this  le'l  old  cottage  since  I  be  that  'igh,"  said 
Mr.  Gilks,  *'  and  it  always  'ave  been  looked  on 
as  unlucky."  The  Bodger  then  explained 
that  he  had  raised  the  question  not  with 
any  hope,  or  even  wish,  that  I  would  offer 
him  direct  employment,  but  with  the  object 
of  inciting  me  to  recommend  him  to  my 
friends. 

This  suggestion  pleased  me.  I  inquired  of 
Mr.  Gilks  if  he  happened  to  be  acquainted 
with  a  gentleman  named  Cobb,  who  occupied 
a  new  and  offensive  bungalow  at  Sly  Corner. 
"  Know  the  gentleman  well,  I  do,"  said  Mr. 
Gilks. 

"  That  being  so,"  I  observed,  *'  it  will  per- 
haps be  worth  your  while  to  call  on  Mr.  Cobb, 
accompanied  by  this  note."  The  Bodger 
thanked  me,  pocketed  the  note,  and  departed. 

This  was  the  note  : — 

*'Dear  Cobb, — Do  you  ever  intend  to 
return  that  pair  of  shears  which  you  bor- 
rowed ?  Your  failure,  in  the  face  of  re- 
peated applications,  to  send  them  back  has 
caused  me  great  inconvenience.  The  man, 
S.  Gilks,  who  brings  the  note,  is  an  all-round 


The  Bodger  259 

mechanic  of  exceptional  ability — ^just  the 
sort  of  person  you  are  wanting.  He  special- 
ises in  hydraulic  appliances  and  lawn- 
mowers.  I  really  must  insist  on  your 
returning  the  shears  at  once." 

Cobb,  as  I  had  hoped,  came  round  to  see 
me  that  evening  in  a  condition  of  speechless 
rage.  "  Here  are  your  beastly  shears,"  he 
said.  "  Perhaps  it  may  surprise  you  to  hear 
that  the  exceptional  mechanic  whom  you 
sent  me  round  has  drowned  himself  in  the 
cistern." 

"  It  doesn't  surprise  me,"  I  said,  adding, 
after  a  pause,  **  because  your  bungalow  is 
known  to  be  unlucky.  Where  have  you 
hidden  the  corpse  ?  " 

"  Luckily  for  Gilks,  we  found  his  corpse  in 
time  to  resuscitate  it ;  artificial  respiration, 
you  know.  Goodness  knows  what  the  fool 
will  cost  me.  He's  ruined  the  cistern  ;  I  shall 
have  to  buy  a  new  one  ;  and  there's  the  doctor 
to  pay  as  well.  I  wish  I'd  let  the  beggar 
drown." 

"  Dr.  Williams,  wasn't  it  ?  "  I  inquired 
politely;  "he's  expensive." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Cobb,  who  likes  to  argue, 
even  on  his  calm  days;  "the  doctor  wasn't 
there  ten  minutes." 


26o  Cottage  Pie 

'*  I  am  afraid,  Cobb,"  I  replied,  "  that  the 
latest  bulletin  has  not  yet  reached  you. 
Doctor  Williams  visited  poor  Gilks  again  to- 
night and  tried  to  take  his  temperature.  He 
has  not  yet  recovered  his  thermometer  and 
there  is  talk  of  an  operation." 


XXIX 

CONCERNING  ELLEN   MAY 

The  hobgoblin  season  has  now  set  in ;  and 
I  was  not  surprised,  at  the  turn  of  the  days, 
to  find  one  dusking  in  my  lane. 

This  was  a  girl  hobgoblin ;  rising  seven 
and  six  hands  high.  I  knew  her  for  a  goblin 
by  her  cap,  which  was  of  crimson  worsted, 
roughly  knit.  She  wore  very  few  clothes,  and 
those  which  did  encompass  her  were  torn, 
grotesquely  fashioned,  and  quite  filthy.  She 
hopped  along  in  front  of  me,  carrying  a  goblin 
milk-can,  and  often  stopping  to  steal  a  sip 
from  it. 

I  hurried  up  the  road  and  came  abreast  of 
her.  Hobgoblins  require  to  be  wooed  with 
boldness.  So  I  took  this  little  lady's  hand  and 
lifted  up  her  chin.  She  was  coloured  like  the 
autumn  heath,  all  bronze  and  brown,  with 
eyes  like  big  ripe  blackberries.  "  And  who  are 
you  .?  "  I  said. 

"  Ellen  May  Brett,"  replied  the  gobhn 
promptly. 

I  asked  her  where  she  lived,  and  she  nodded 
261 


262  Cottage  Pie 

her  head  in  the  direction  of  Sly  Corner,  saying, 
"  In  the  cottages.'* 

I  reflected,  with  some  pity  for  Ellen,  that 
this  nod  and  those  words  pointed  to  Sly 
Cottages.  Sly  Cottages  are  quite  the  most 
delightful  things  in  our  landscape  ;  but  they 
are  held  in  disrepute  by  the  peasantry,  being 
situated  on  a  kind  of  marsh,  and  being  low- 
pitched,  partly  roofless,  and  wholly  doorless. 
The  aesthetic  and  commercial  prejudices  of  a 
Hallowed  Past  are  responsible  for  the  stunted 
dimensions  of  these  dwelling-places,  and  the 
Finger  of  Time  is  responsible  for  the  irregu- 
larity of  their  tiling.  But  man,  and  man  alone, 
is  to  be  blamed  for  the  absence  of  doors,  the 
tenants  themselves  having  tugged  and  bat- 
tered down  those  common  decencies  for  the 
purpose  of  making  fires  with  which  to  warm 
their  hides. 

Sly  Cottages,  therefore,  are  always  in- 
habited by  "  undesirables  "  :  unless  you  count 
out  Mr.  Webster,  who  is  a  decent  sort  of  man 
at  heart,  but  who  has  "  catched  the  asthma 
in  his  throat,"  and  has  therefore  descended 
to  this.  Mr.  Webster  will  soon  be  in  the 
workhouse.  All  the  people  who  live  in  Sly 
Cottages  will  soon  be  in  the  workhouse  : 
these  residences  being,  as  it  were,  a  species 


Concerning  Ellen  May         263 

of  quaint  and  old-world  booking-office  to 
the  workhouse.  Nobody  goes  to  live  in  Sly 
Cottages  unless  he  drinks  and  thieves  and 
has  lost  all  shame.  And  nobody,  be  it 
therefore  said  (to  the  glory  of  God),  has  ever 
been  known  to  pay  any  rent  for  a  Sly  Cottage 
— excepting,  of  course,  Mr.  Webster.  You 
can  see  him  any  evening  as  you  pass  (the  road 
is  passable  in  July  and  August),  and  you  can 
hear  them.  They  sing  and  swear  and  scream 
and  club  each  other.  Mr.  Webster  sits  mend- 
ing their  boots,  for  which  they  seldom  pay 
him. 

You  can  imagine,  therefore,  with  what  sort 
of  interest  I  learned  where  my  goblin  came 
from.  "  And  you  have  been  fetching  the 
milk  for  mummy,  like  a  good  little  girl  ?  "  I 
hazarded. 

Ellen  May  Brett  rather  solemnly  shook  her 
head.  "  Mo'er  be  gone  away,"  she  explained. 
"  Me  dad,  he  fro  wed  a  lamp  at  mo'er,  and 
mo'er  be  gone  away.  'Tis  me  auntie  what 
lives  atome  along  o*  dad  and  me  ;  me  aunty 
what  come  out  o'  th'  Union.  Me  auntie,  she 
'ave  got  a  le'l  babby  in  th'  Union.  Mo'er,  she 
'itted  auntie  when  auntie  come  out  o'  th' 
Union. 

*'  When    I    git    'ome/'    continued    Ellen, 


264  Cottage  Pie 

**  auntie's  gointer  gimme  a  (foul  word)  hid- 
ing." 

I  jumped  so  sharply  that  I  think  my  little 
goblin  was  startled.  She  seemed  to  be  even 
more  surprised  by  my  next  question.  "  Why 
do  you  speak  such  nasty,  bad  words  ?  "  I  said. 

Ellen  May  Brett  regarded  me  with  wonder. 
"  'Tis  what  me  auntie  told  me,"  she  replied. 

"  Why  are  you  going  to  get  a  hiding  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  'Cos  the  milk  be  nearly  gone,"  responded 
Ellen,  lifting  the  lid  of  her  can  and  exposing 
a  bare  cupful  of  liquid.  Auntie  she  told  me  I 
was  not  to  spill  none  ;  and  I  spilled  it  nearly 
all." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  spilled  it,  Ellen  ?  I 
think  you  drank  a  lot." 

"  No,"  said  Ellen,  "  I  spilled  it." 

"  But  I  saw  you  drink  some." 

"  I  spilled  it,"  repeated  Ellen,  drawing 
away  from  me. 

"  Then,"  I  responded,  "  it  must  have  been 
some  other  little  girl  I  saw  with  her  nose  in  the 
can." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Ellen  gravely  ;  "  you  see 
some  other  le'l  gairl.  .  .  .  When  I  be  growed 
I  shall  gi'  my  auntie  a  (bad  word)  hidin'. 
...  I  shall  frow  a  lamp  at  her.'' 


Concerning  Ellen  May         265 

By  this  time  we  were  come  to  Ellen's  stile  ; 
and  the  marsh  and  Sly  Cottages  were  close  at 
hand.  I  presented  Ellen  with  my  blessing,  a 
kiss,  and  three  halfpence.  She  did  not  stop 
to  thank  me,  being  eager  for  the  stile,  which 
she  climbed  laboriously,  rung  by-rung,  making 
a  great  clatter  with  the  milk-can.  She  came 
down  with  a  plomp  on  the  other  side,  and 
hobbled  off  into  the  dingy  twilight,  saying 
loudly  : 

"  Blarst  the  mud  !  " 


Making  diligent  inquiry,  I  have  learned 
some  facts  concerning  Ellen  May  Brett,  but 
they  are  not  to  her  advantage.  She  is  a  bad 
little  girl,  it  seems.  She  comes  late  to  school ; 
she  steals  food  from  the  other  children  ;  she 
utters  a  constant  and  varied  flow  of  beastly 
adjectives.  She  is,  in  the  memorable  phrase 
of  our  schoolmaster,  a  **  damnable,  infectious 
child." 

But  I  have  reformed  this  hobgoblin.  Oh 
yes,  I  have  reformed  her.  I  am  exercising  an 
influence  over  her.  When  we  met  for  the 
second  time,  she  was  arguing  with  a  small  boy 
in  a  ditch.  He  was  bleeding  from  several 
places,  and  she  had  nearly  strangled  him. 


266  Cottage  Pie 

*'  This  little  substantive/'  my  Ellen  exclaimed, 

**  he  have  called  me  a never  mind.  /  shall 

teach  him  to  call  me  a never  mind." 

I  exercised  my  influence,  and  Ellen  May  let 
go.  We  then  held  hands  and  strolled  away, 
discoursing  of  the  proprieties ;  of  School- 
masters ;  of  God  ;  of  Punishment ;  of  Virtue, 
Happiness,  and  Reward.  This  conversation, 
accompanied,  as  it  was,  by  a  further  offering 
of  halfpence,  produced  a  great  impression 
upon  Ellen  May.  She  showed  henceforward 
much  fondness  for  me  ;  she  has  become  a  con- 
stant and  familiar  companion.  No  matter 
which  road  I  may  choose  to  take  of  an  evening, 
it  is  sure  to  lead  me  to  Ellen  May,  who  will 
leave  off  playing  with,  or  hitting  her  com- 
panions, and  trot  towards  me,  crying  trium- 
phantly : 

"  That  be  my  funny  man." 

And  now  she  goeth  regularly  to  school  and 
gets  there  earlier  than  any  other  child.  Her 
language  is  chaste.  Her  demeanour  modest. 
She  accepts  correction  meekly. 

You  can  see,  therefore,  that  my  boast  of 
reform  is  not  a  vain  one  ;  though  yesterday — 
well,  yesterday  I  called  on  Mr.  Pinkhurst,  the 
village  Whiteley,  and  Ellen  May,  who  had 
shadowed  me  as  usual,  squatted  on  the  door- 


Concerning  Ellen  May         i(ri 

step  and  watched  me  haggle.  I  said  to  Mr. 
Pinkhurst :  **  Sir,  this  is  preposterous.  You 
can  keep  your  egg-cups.  I  cannot  afford  to 
pay  you  threepence  for  a  penny  egg-cup." 

And  I  went  away. 

But  as  I  nursed  my  bitter  thoughts  in 
Poundings  Wood  there  was  a  rustUng  among 
the  bracken,  and  two  egg-cups,  accompanied 
by  Ellen  May,  came  out  of  it. 

A  hot  and  sticky  hand  was  thrust  in  mine, 
and  a  breathless  voice  said  cheerfully  : 

"  He  be  a  swine,  that  Pinkhurst.  Here  be 
the  egg-cups.    I  took  and  pinched  'em." 


XXX 

LAMB-STROKE 


When,  this  morning,  I  came  upon  Benny 
Domer  in  a  place  of  concealment  behind  a 
hayrick,  and  that  sadly  disreputable  young 
gentleman  pretended  not  to  see  me,  I  per- 
ceived that  Providence  had  singled  me  out 
for  the  duty  of  offering  Benjamin  some 
Christian  guidance. 

I  said  to  him  : 

"  Benjamin,  what  are  you  doing  here  ? 
Wherefore  are  you  hiding  ?  Why  aren't  you 
at  church  ?  Don't  you  know  what  happens 
to  idle  folk  ?  " 

"  Beggin'  yeure  pardon,  sir,"  responded 
Benjamin,  rubbing  his  trousers  with  a  bash- 
ful hand,  "  but — but  oi  be  courtin*,  sir  !  " 

Save  for  an  occasional  cobnut  and  a  great 
deal  of  abuse  bestowed  upon  Joanna,  I  do 
not  think  that  Benjamin  had  acknowledged 
the  existence  of  an  opposite  sex  during  his 
whole  life.  And  Joanna  really  did  not  count. 
For  one  thing,  she  was  Benny's  cousin,  and 
lived  next  door  to  him,  and  Benny  loathed 
the  sight  of  her.    For  another,  she  was  homely 

268 


Lamb-Stroke  269 

beyond  the  aid  of  art  or  flattery,  having 
freckles,  and  a  squab  nose,  and  a  mouth  that 
was  made  for  eating  bacon  dumpling.  Also 
she  sang  hymns,  and  believed  in  devils,  and 
knitted — knitted  always.  Joanna,  in  fact, 
I  was  just  that  sort  of  dull,  good,  ill-favoured, 
I  righteous  woman  whom  Providence  has 
created  with  the  apparent  object  of  causing 
mankind  to  love  the  wicked  ones.  And  in 
Benny's  case  she  had  apparently  fulfilled  her 
destiny.  I  wondered  to  myself  what  loose- 
tongued  little  chit  of  the  villages  had  captured 
Benny's  fancy. 

"  It  is  Fanny  Duke,  I  suppose,"  said  I. 

"  Aht  it  ben't !  "  asserted  Benny,  with 
quite  a  suggestion  of  scorn  in  his  tone. 

*'  That  yellow-haired,  calf -eyed  girl,  then 
—Clara  Whitestone." 

"  Not  me,"  said  Mr.  Domer  definitely. 

"  H'm  !  Well,  then,  let  me  see — ^it  will  be 
Perseverance :  Perseverance  Gandy.  She 
has  a  baby,  so  that  the  home  will  be  com- 
||     plete  from  its  start." 

"  Goo  'lung  with  ye !  "  answered  Mr. 
Domer.    "  No  Perseverances  for  w^." 

"  Then,"  quoth  I,  "  you've  stumped  me. 
I  give  it  up.    Who  is  the  lady  that  you  love  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  queried  Benjamin. 


270  Cottage  Pie 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  girl  with  whom 
you've  fallen  in  love  ?  " 

"  Me  !  "  echoed  Benny.  "  Moi  gracious, 
then  !  Oh,  pray,  now  !  Me  in  love  !  Beggin* 
yeure  pardon,  mester,  but  oi  ben't  fell  in  love 
with  no  one." 

"  But  you  told  me  you  were  courtin'  ?  " 

"  True  enough.    So  oi  be  !  " 

"  But  in  that  case  you  must — you  can't 
— don't  tell  me  you  are  courting  a  lady  whom 
you  do  not  love  ?  " 

^*  Love  ! '*  echoed  Benjamin.  "  Oi  don't 
love  no  one — not  to  say  love  ;  nor  never  will, 
please  Gahd  !    Love,  indeed  !  " 

"  What  makes  you  go  courting,  then  ?  " 

**  Beggin'  yeure  pardon,  sir,"  Mr.  Domer 
explained,  *'  oi  be  lamb-struck,  as  the  sayin' 

go." 

"And  what,"  I  demanded,  "what  on  earth 
may  that  be  ?  " 

"  Lamb-struck  ?  "  queried  Mr.  Domer. 
**  Why,  aht  be — aht  be — lamb-struck  !  Just 
thaht :   lamb-struck  !  " 

**  But  what  does  it  feel  like,  Benny  ?  " 

Benjamin  inspected  the  heavens  once  more, 
and  his  toes,  and  the  pastureland  around  him. 
And  he  performed  fresh  feats  of  a  contortional 
character.    And  again  he  blushed. 


Lamb-Stroke  27 1 

"  Maybe,"  said  Benjamin,  "  as  oi'd  best 
tal  yew  th'  'istory  o'  moi  lamb-stroke,  what 
come  on  me  sudden,  a  month  ago  next  Thurs- 
day, as  was  all  brought  to  pass  'lung  of  me 
eatin'  dumpling  on  a  empty  stomick.  It's  a 
short  'istory." 

"  Do  let  me  hear  it,"  I  pleaded. 

"  They  dumpHng,"  reflected  Mr.  Domer,  **  be 
more  lidgetin*  to  a  man's  mind  nor  arl  the 
strong  licker  as  ever  was  brewed.  It  was 
dumpling  an'  nowt  else,  as  brought  about  my 
lamb-stroke.  'Cos  dumpling  was  the  on'y 
thing  what  oi'd  partook  of. 

"  An'  there  was  oi  a-walkin'  be  a  farm- 
house, thinkin'  nowt  of  nothink — leastways, 
nowt  of  courtship.  P'r'aps  oi  woun't  goo  so 
fur  as  to  say  oi  thowt  of  nothink,  'cos  p'r'aps 
aht  theer  would  be  a  loi.  'Cos  I  did  think  to 
notice  the  loi  of  some  coverts  what  oi  see. 
An'  oi  noticed,  loikewoise,  as  the  sun  be 
shoinin',  an'  the  greenstuff  sproutin'  foine, 
an'  the  bluebells  an'  that  a-showin'  up.  An* 
oi  seed  a  pond  o'  frog-bit,  what  showed  loike 
silver  in  the  sun-glare.  An'  oi  'eared  a 
throstle  and  a  peweet.  An'  then,  begard,  aht 
dam  thing  come  upon  me,  an'  theer  was  oi, 
fair  lamb-struck,  a-takin'  notice  of  a  female 
as  was  weavin'  blooms  an'  thaht  alung  be 


272  Cottage  Pie 

the  brooksoide.  Oi  noticed  'er  of  a  sudden, 
loike,  an',  as  oi  seed  'er,  the  dahm  thing 
come  upon  me,  an'  theer  was  oi,  fair  lamb- 
struck  ! 

**  An'  thaht  theer  maid  looked  sloi  at  me. 
An'  begard,  thaht  finished  it. 

**  Oi  be  thaht  lamb-struck,  oi  couldn't  wait 
for  no  reflections,  but  up  to  'er  oi  otchles.  An' 
the  nearer  oi  goos,  the  sloier  she  looks.  An' 
then  oi  otchles  faster. 

"  An'  when  oi  gits  'lungsoide  of  'er,  sloi 
menk  as  she  was,  'er  face  was  'id  from  me. 
An',  begard,  oi  kissed  'er — bein'  lamb-struck  ! 
I  kissed  'er  'and,  begard  !  And  'er  elber.  And 
oi  kissed  the  back  of  'er  neck,  wheer  there  be 
a  dimple  and  a  curl,  what  lay  together  same's 
ef  they  was  fitted  theer.  And  she  turned  'er 
'ead,  an'  then,  begard,  I  kissed  'er  on  the 
mouth. 

"  I  looked  at  'er  face,  then,  mester,  and 
then  oi  see — oi  see — what  do  you  think  oi  see  ? 
Oh,  pray,  and  oh,  dear,  oi  see  as  this  young 
maid  what  oi'd  been  kissin'  (me  bein'  lamb- 
struck),  oi  see  as  it  be — our  Joanna  ! 

"  Lairrf  ?  Begard,  I  didn't  'airrf  lairrf  ! 
Our  Joanna  !    Oh,  pray  ! 

"  *  Oold  up,  oold  gel,'  says  oi.  *  Oi  kissed 
ye  once  through  bein'  lamb-struck  ;  and  now, 


Lamb-Stroke  I'-j'^ 

begard,  oi'll  kiss  ye  for  yeself.'  And,  begard, 
oi  done  it,  too  !  " 

Mr.  Domer  ceased  his  narrative  at  this  point 
in  order  to  rise  up  and  gesticulate  wildly  in  the 
direction  of  a  proximitous  stile.  "  An'  there 
she  be,  th'  oold  devil,"  said  Benjamin. 

"  And  you  do  not  love  her  ?  " 

"  Love  her  ?  Love  her  ?  Begard,  no  !  Oi 
be  just  lamb-struck." 

'*  Certainly,"  quoth  your  servant,  speaking 
half  to  himself,  "  certainly  th*  oold  devil  is  not 
handsome." 

Then  spoke  Mr.  Domer — not  at  all  to 
himself  : 

**  You  squab-nosed  little  toad,"  he  said, 
"  oi'll  mek  yew  eat  'er  muddy  boots  for 
thaht !  " 


XXXI 

THE  LITTLE  RED  MAN 


There  was  a  grand,  harmonic  stillness  upon 
the  Old  Town  :  an  August  stillness,  draped 
with  the  pompous  gold  and  heavy  purples  of 
an  evening  sun  ;  fragrant  with  the  breath  of 
drowsy  honeysuckle. 

I  remember  thinking,  as  I  looked  down 
upon  this  little  red-brown  hive,  and  saw  the 
sun-elves  dancing  in  a  hundred  latticed  panes, 
that  here  that  fabulous  old  stork,  who  brings 
good  gifts  to  babies  as  they  lie  at  breast, 
must  have  his  dwelling.  But  I  looked  for  him 
in  vain. 

The  smoke  curled  up,  and  the  smoke-stacks 
swaggered  and  jostled  each  other,  and  the 
honeysuckle  nodded  in  its  sleep,  and  the  earth 
was  clothed  in  sunlight  as  with  an  amber  robe. 
But  that  bald-headed  old  stork  could  not  be 
tempted  forth  to  view  it  all.  Unless — unless 
.  .  .  The  Old  Town  lieth  snug  within  a  valley, 
as  it  is  meet  and  goodly  that  a  ripe  old  town 
should  do,  and  so  behind  those  roystering 
chimney-pots  the  sloping  pastures  rise  and 

274 


The  Little  Red  Man  2rj^ 

brush  the  sunbeams  with  their  crest  of  elm 
and  oak  and  fir.  And  there,  above  the  top- 
most thicket — which  they  call  the  Rectory 
Wood — I  seemed  to  see  .  .  .  ? 

At  any  rate,  I  could  not  be  certain  about 
this  bird.  He  was,  at  best,  but  a  white  speck 
amid  the  amber  ;  and  such  white  specks  are 
varied  and  elusive  in  their  form.  But  when 
I  took  my  eye  from  the  fir  tops,  and  allowed 
it  to  rest  upon  the  Rectory  Meadow — which 
sweeps  like  a  great  god's  mantle  from  the  fir 
tops  to  the  town — I  saw  the  myriad  little  red 
men,  whom  I  always  see  when  I  survey  this 
view.  They  clamber  out  of  the  Old  Town's 
churchyard  in  battalions,  thick  as  ants.  They 
are  dressed  in  red  from  cap  to  toe  ;  the 
greatest  of  them  is  no  greater  than  a  crow  in 
stature.  They  carry  long  white  staves,  and 
they  dance  and  leap  upon  the  sward,  and 
huUoo  to  the  echoes,  and  they  race  each  other 
to  the  fir  trees. 

This  evening  there  were  thousands  of  them, 
and  they  were  very  gay.  They  played  at 
hide-and-seek  among  the  clover  heads,  and 
stood  upon  each  other's  shoulders  to  view  the 
thistle  tops.  Or  they  lay  upon  their  sides 
and  5  rolled  competitively  down  the  slopes. 
And  they  hullooed,  and  pranced,  and  flour- 


276  Cottage  Pie 

ished  their  staves,  and  the  leader  of  them 
came  to  within  a  yard  of  the  fir  woods,  when 
— puff !  They  were  gone — vanished  as  com- 
pletely as  my  friend  the  stork  ! 

And  it  was  no  wonder.  For  the  Hosken 
family  had  emerged  in  procession  from  the 
Rectory  Woods,  singing  of  prophetic  hymns, 
and  clothed  on  with  a  festival  garb  of 
black. 

Whenever  the  Hoskens  walk  abroad,  these 
little  red  men  always  fade  away. 

The  Hoskens  came  down  the  opposite  hill- 
side in  a  sort  of  procession,  to  the  number  of 
five.  Brother  Isaac  Hosken — who  in  his 
secular  capacity  supplies  your  servant  with 
very  indifferent  coal — ^led  the  van,  walking 
backwards.  He  was  encouraging  the  vocal 
efforts  of  his  brethren  with  both  arms.  The 
flock,  on  this  occasion,  consisted  of  Mrs. 
Brother  Hosken  and  Miss  Hannah  Hosken, 
together  with  Miss  Hannah's  "  young  gentle- 
man "  and  Master  Job  Hosken.  Master  Job's 
worldly  energies  (when  not  occupied  with  a 
catapult)  are  also  directed  to  the  coal  trade  ; 
and,  in  spite  of  the  disfiguring  effect  of  that 
occupation,  this  youth  may  always  be  recog- 
nised at  a  great  distance  by  reason  of  his 
trousers,  which  are  of  the  same  abnormal 


The  Little  Red  Man  277 

width  all  over,  being  cultivated,  as  it  were, 
from  the  parent  stock. 

Since  the  red  men  had  vanished  and  the 
Hoskens  had  appeared,  there  was  obviously 
no  comfort  to  be  gained  by  tarrying  upon  the 
hill-side.  So  I  walked  down  into  the  Old  Town 
itself.  The  sun  still  poured  its  amber  flood 
upon  the  window-panes  ;  tall  and  splendid 
hollyhocks  were  blooming  along  the  cottage 
walls ;  the  cottage  doors  were  open,  and  the 
women  sat  beside  them,  making  lace  or 
suckling  their  babies.  And  older  babies 
squatted  in  the  doorways,  or  peered  across 
those  funny  little  pocket-gates  which  they 
use  in  the  Old  Town  to  keep  their  children 
from  the  perils  of  the  silent  roadway.  But  it 
was  no  longer  a  silent  street.  Whilst  I  had 
been  walking  down  from  my  hill  the  Hoskens 
had  been  coming  down  from  theirs.  I  could 
hear  their  boots  upon  the  cobble-stones  and 
their  devotional  voices  lifted  up  in  song — 
though  scarcely  achieving  it.  The  combined 
effect  of  boot  and  melody — they  were,  with 
manifest  effort,  suppressing  the  high  notes 
whilst  actually  upon  the  High  Street — was 
disjointed  and  ugly. 

There  are  only  three  streets  in  the  Old 
Town ;    and  two  of  those  are  really   one. 


278  Cottage  Pie 

The  Hosken  family  passed  me  at  a  comer, 
and  went  on  steadily  towards  the  broad 
end  of  High  Street,  where  the  very  old 
folk  live.  The  cottages  are  tiny  there  ;  but 
^they  have  gardens  back  and  front,  and  it  is 
generally  recognised  that  the  possession  of 
these  arbours  is  a  guerdon  of  age  and  wisdom. 
I  followed  the  Hosken  family  with  a  resentful 
eye  ;  and  Mr.  Dillnutt,  our  harness-maker, 
who  noted  my  gaze,  spat  upon  the  ground  in 
a  manner  which  was  designed  to  signify  his 
atonement  with  my  thoughts. 

"  Et  is  Grarrnfer  Harsken  they  be  airfter," 
Mr.  Dillnutt  explained.  "  Grarrnfer  Harsken's 
bairthday — ^he'U  be  foive-an'-sexty  to-day. 
Tham's  'is  lettle  bairthday  prasent.  Gooin' 
er  gev  'im  a  spall  o'  Screptur  an*  a  blassin'  an' 
a  sloice  o'  the  fambly  moind.  There's  alius  a 
dapitation  waits  on  'im  a  bairthdays  to  rub 
et  en  about  the  missus,  an'  livin*  in  sin,  an' 
soo  fowerth.  Oid  watch  moi  son  come 
prichin'  'UU  Foir  to  me — pray,  that  oi  would. 
Man  o'  *es  age  to  be  larned  vartue  be  a  passal 
o'  damned  coal-pinchers  uv  un's  own  breedin'. 
Moi  Gard,  oi'd  watch  et !  Theer's  un's  woife, 
too — what  we  call  un's  woife  ;  an'  ain't  she 
as  good  as  un's  woife,  wi'  twunty-eight  yeers* 
sarvice  an'  all  ? — theer's  'ur,  oi  say  ?    What 


The  Little  Red  Man  279 

soort  of  a  bairthday  treat  es  thes  all,  oi'd 
airsk  yew  ?  .  .  .  Grarrnfer  Harsken's  bairth- 
day !    Moi  Gard,  oi  wesh  un  joy  uv  et !  " 

And  so  did  I,  knowing,  as  I  did,  the  circum- 
stances of  Granfer  Hosken's  household.  For 
the  lady  who  shared  his  home  with  Granfer 
Hosken — who  had  shared  it  for  eight-and- 
twenty  years — enjoyed  that  privilege  upon 
a  footing  which  formed  the  subject  of  painful 
reflection  to  the  righteous.  She  was,  in  fact, 
unwedded  to  Granfer.  And  for  no  reason 
save  that  of  Granfer' s  obstinacy. 

Granfer's  first  wife — the  mother  of  Brother 
Hosken — was  a  drunkard,  a  spendthrift,  and 
a  slattern.  Granfer  walloped  her  with  his 
belt  on  Saturday  nights,  and  the  parson 
prayed  for  her  on  Sunday.  But  she  got  "  the 
horrors,"  and  died.  And  Granfer,  a  sisterless 
man,  was  left  with  three  little  children,  who 
required  to  be  fed,  and  washed,  and  watched, 
and  mended  precisely  during  those  hours 
when  Granfer  was  occupied  at  the  brewery. 
And  Granfer  made  a  vow. 

**  Oi'U  get  a  mother  for  'em,"  said  he  ; 
"  but,  begard,  oi'U  never  marry  'un.  Oi'U 
boind  meself  to  no  damned  wummun  on  this 
airth.  Oi've  lost  the  appetite.  Oi'U  do  as  me 
betters  do,  begard — oi'U  kip  a  mistress  !  " 


28o  Cottage  Pie 

And  so  a  certain  woman  of  middle  age, 
whose  name  was  Anna  Bovey,  having  recently 
buried  an  imbecile  brother,  and  having,  there- 
fore, a  sort  of  knack  at  working  and  thinking 
for  the  helpless,  was  shortly  imported  into 
Granfer's  household.  No  one  knew  exactly 
by  what  magic  Granfer  had  triumphed  in  his 
somewhat  unconventional  courtship ;  but 
everybody  felt  certain  that  some  sort  of  magic 
had  been  employed.  For  Anna  Bovey  was 
reputed  to  be  a  lady  of  Christian  principle. 
Everybody  overlooked,  I  suppose,  the  magic 
of  a  woman's  heart  in  an  empty  world  :  the 
magic  of  three  little  children,  whose  stockings 
cried  aloud  for  the  darning-needle,  and  whose 
necks  required  washing.  And  it  is  needless 
to  add  that  everybody  also  overlooked  the 
magic  in  Granfer's  eye. 

At  any  rate,  the  conquest  was  a  settled 
fact.  Anna  Bovey  entered  Granfer's  house- 
hold, and  washed  the  children,  and  cooked 
the  dinners,  and  cleaned  the  cottage,  and 
mended  Granfer's  clothes.  And  when  Granfer 
fell  ill,  she  nursed  him ;  and  when  the  children 
fell  ill,  she  nursed  them ;  and  when  they  were 
all  ill  together,  she  went  out  weeding  in  the 
fields  or  charring  at  "  The  Hall,"  with  all  the 
coolness    and    effrontery    of    a    respectable 


The  Little  Red  Man  281 

married  woman.  She  went  to  church,  too, 
and  instructed  her  children  in  the  Gospels — 
those  very  Gospels  which  in  these  days 
Brother  Hosken  expounds  with  such  elo- 
quence at  the  old  Police  Station  on  Sundays. 
And  so  time  went  by ;  and  the  children  grew 
up,  and  Granfer  grew  grey — Anna  Bovey 
with  him.  And  presently  they  were  left  alone 
in  life,  and  moved  their  furniture  to  a  cottage 
in  the  old  folks'  quarter,  where  there  are 
flower  gardens.  And  Anna  Bovey  continued 
to  wash  and  mend  and  save  for  Granfer,  as 
heretofore,  and  to  go  out  into  the  fields  when 
necessary. 

And  so  she  grew  to  be  old  and  (in  a  manner 
of  speaking)  decent.  The  Old  Town  forgot 
about  her  past — the  older  women  forgave  it 
her — and  they  called  her  **  Mrs.  Hosken," 
and  she  called  herself  by  that  name,  and 
mixed  and  spoke  with  her  equals,  and  knew 
not  shame.  Sometimes,  when  very  Christian 
people  addressed  her  pointedly  as  **  Miss 
Bovey,"  she  would  be  seen  to  flush  and  bite 
her  lip.  But,  on  the  whole,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  sense  of  sin  sat  lightly  on  her.  She  was  a 
happy-looking  woman. 

And  now,  in  accordance  with  precedent, 
the  son  and  grandchildren  of  Granfer  Hosken 


282  Cottage  Pie 

were  visiting  him  upon  the  anniversary  of  his 
birth,  to  urge  upon  him  the  justice  and  ex- 
pediency of  transforming  Miss  Bovey  into  an 
honest  woman. 

When  the  procession  arrived  at  Granfer's 
cottage,  they  found  him  seated,  as  might 
have  been  expected,  upon  a  chair,  beside  his 
sunflowers.  In  Granfer's  part  of  the  world 
you  are  a  sadly  unfashionable  old  man  if  you 
don't  fancy  sunflowers.  And  not  to  seat  your- 
self conspicuously  beside  them  is  to  challenge 
the  neglect  of  the  wayfarer. 

Granfer's  weather-stained  countenance  had 
taken  on  a  singular  vermilion  hue  in  that 
amber-coloured  light.  His  stiff  grey  hair  and 
his  stiff  grey  chin-beard  and  whiskers  formed 
a  sort  of  circle,  the  effect  of  which  was  to 
make  one  think  of  the  tickets  which  they  put 
in  picture-dealers'  windows  marked  "  This 
style,  ready  framed."  Those  of  Granfer's 
features  which  could  be  distinguished  from 
warts  suggested  humour  and  honesty  and  the 
sublimest  sort  of  stubbornness.  He  was 
smoking  a  short  clay  pipe  and  fondling  a 
teacup.  He  appeared  to  be  expecting  an 
unpleasant  visitor.  Brother  Hosken's  deputa- 
tion was,  in  fact,  the  unpleasant  visitor  which 
he  expected. 


The  Little  Red  Man  283 

"  So,"  said  Granfer,  with  a  grave  and  un- 
demonstrative wag  of  the  head,  "  yeu're  come 
as  usual.  Befower  yew  begin  to  gratalate  me, 
oi'll  be  geven  yew  a  word  o'  warnin'.  It  is 
this  :  '  Be  damned  to  ye' re  psalm-singin'. 
Oi  wown't  'ave  none  on  it !  '  " 

**  What  saith,"  responded  Brother  Hosken, 
with  a  kindly  smile,  as  he  lifted  the  latch  of 
the  wicket,  "  what  saith  the  Good  Shepherd  ? 
He  saith — er — He  saith  that  even  'im  what 
carries  on  an'  blasphemes  is  created  in  'Is  own 
image." 

Granfer  appeared  to  derive  comfort  from 
this  assurance.  "  That's  arl  roight,"  he 
said.  ..."  What  yew  brart  alung  to 
eat  ?  " 

A  black  pudding  had  been  brought  along, 
besides  two  mackerel  and  a  pound  of  cheese. 
Also  a  large  china  drinking-mug  for  Granfer, 
inscribed  "  Repent,  oh  sinner  !  "  and  a  gar- 
ment of  scarlet  flannel  for  Anna. 

"  Wheer  is  Mar  ? "  demanded  Brother 
Hosken ;  and  Granfer  replied  that  she  was 
**  out  in  the  back  plot  ringin'  in  a  swarm." 

Some  strange  bees  had  taken  possession 
of  an  empty  hive  in  Anna's  garden  that  even- 
ing, and  that  lady  was,  therefore,  extremely 
occupied  with  a  fire-shovel  and  a  key.    When 


284  Cottage  Pie 

strange  bees  visit  you,  these  implements  must 
be  at  once  employed  for  the  purpose  of  ringing 
them  in.  If  this  ceremony  be  neglected,  it  is 
a  widely  acknowledged  fact  that  all  your 
flowers  and  vegetables  will  at  once  fall  victims 
to  the  blight,  and  your  pig  will  die  of  fever. 
Also,  the  roof  of  your  house  will  be  destroyed 
by  lightning,  and  the  well  will  dry  up.  Also, 
a  bee  which  has  been  well  and  duly  rung  is 
your  bee,  and  no  man  need  be  listened  to  who 
comes  blustering  round  with  legends  of  prior 
ownership.  For  all  of  which  reasons  Anna 
Bovey  applied  herself  industriously  to  the 
coal-shovel. 

And  Brother  Hosken  applied  himself  to 
Granfer.  He  demonstrated  the  wickedness  of 
that  aged  person's  conduct  by  means  of  seven 
different  parables,  and  he  fortified  the  con- 
clusions to  be  drawn  from  them  with  Scrip- 
tural texts  of  a  painfully  prophetic  character. 
'*  And  they  oony  gevs  a  'undredth  pairt  o'  the 
'orrors  what  you  will  'ave  to  go  threw  in 
*U11,"  concluded  this  dutiful  son. 

Granfer  listened  very  quietly  :  very  pa- 
tiently. "  Oi'm  an  oold  mahn,"  he  said,  at 
the  end  of  it  all. 

"  Thaht  yew  be,  moi  lahd  !  "  retorted  the 
son,  in  a  tone  of  cordial  agreement.     "  An' 


The  Little  Red  Man  285 

glory  be  to  Gard  as  'E  put  grace  into  yewr 
'airt  to  see  et.    Oi " 

Granfer  put  up  a  withered  forefinger,  and 
the  evangelist  ceased  talking  and  fixed  an 
inquiring  gaze  upon  his  father.  *'  When  oi 
tall  yew  oi'm  oold,  moi  sarn,"  observed  that 
gentleman,  "  I  down't  mean  to  say  what  yew 
iherik  oi  mean.  What  oi  mean  to  say  is,  oold 
yewr  silly  jower,  an'  give  an'  oold  mahn  some 
peace.  Yew  leave  moi  sool  in  moi  marnage- 
ment.  Oi'll  see  as  the  damned  theng  down't 
come  to  now  'airm." 

"  Yew  gut  yewr  fambly  to  conseder,"  urged 
the  younger  man.  "  What  soort  o'  gussip  is 
gooin'  un  alung  of  yew  an'  'er,  do  yew  sup- 
pose ?  " 

*'  Bin  gooin'  fur  a  yeer  or  two  be  now,  oi 
racken.    Oi'll  beer  op  'ansome  for  the  rest." 

"  Yew' II  beer  op !  "  sneered  Brother  Hosken. 
"  Oo's  thenkin'  o'  yew  ?  A  vainglorus  oold 
senner  loike  what  yew  be  down't  matter  to 
no  one.  Et's  the  fambly  oi  look  at — an'  the 
prenciple — an'  'er.  Ain't  it  oony  just  an* 
roight  to  'er?  Ain't  she  bin  a  rare  good 
wummun  to  yew  ?  " 

"  That's  what  oi  say,"  asserted  Mrs. 
Brother  Hosken,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 
"  Ain't " 


286  Cottage  Pie 

"  'Ush,  Deborah  !  'Ush  !  "  commanded 
her  husband.  **  Don't  excoite  your  blood- 
vessels." 

**  Yas,"  observed  Granfer,  ignoring  these 
asides,  "  yas,  th'  oold  un's  bin  a  arre  good 
wummun  to  me.  An'  I  made  up  me  moind 
to  goo  barck  on  the  vow,  an'  marry  'er  !  " 

"  Yew  'ave  !  "  exclaimed  the  Hoskens,  in 
one  surprised  and  joyful  voice.    **  Yew " 

But  again  the  old  man's  lifted  finger  awed 
them  into  silence.  "  Yas,"  he  repeated,  "  oi 
med  up  moi  moind  to  marry  'er.  But  not  for 
koindness,  mark  yew,  nor  yet  fur  prenciples, 
nor  for  no  jabbering  alleelujee  minstrels  uv 
a  fambly.  Et's  fur  peace  oi'm  doin'  et :  'tis 
rest  fur  moi  power  'ead  oi  be  lookin'  fur.  An 
oold  marn  ain't  gut  no  roight  wi'  vows.  What 
'e  wants  is  peace  an'  a  rest  from  'is  stenkin* 
fambly.    So " 

But  the  rest  of  Granfer's  candid  observa- 
tions were  lost  in  a  hubbub. 

"  Granma  Harsken  !  "  cried  her  stepson  ; 
**  Granma  Harsken  !  "  cried  the  ladies  ;  whilst 
Job,  the  trousered  wonder,  being  sent  round 
to  the  back  plot,  returned  pulling  at  an  apron, 
with  Granma  safely  attached  to  the  end  of  it. 

Granma  stopped  at  the  rain-tub,  a  few  feet 
from  her  visitors,  and,  transferring  her  coal- 


The  Little  Red  Man  287 

shovel  to  the  left  hand,  peered  from  beneath 
the  other  at  them  through  the  swiftly  dying 
sunlight. 

**  'Ow  are  yew  arl  ?  "  said  Granma.  "  Good 
an'  'airty  ?  Brart  'im  a  puddin',  oi  see. 
Thart's  good." 

**  Glory  to  Gard,  Granma  Harsken !  " 
shouted  her  stepson,  much  to  the  lady's  sur- 
prise. And  "  Glory  to  Gard  I  "  echoed  his 
following. 

"  We  gut  a  message  o'  grace  for  yew, 
Granma  Harsken !  "  continued  her  stepson. 
**  Lesten  whoile  oi  tall  yew." 

Brother  Hosken's  *'  telling  "  was  couched 
in  Scriptural  form — a  Scriptural  form  in  which 
the  parable  predominated. 

When  he  had  finished,  Granma  Hosken 
looked  at  him  vaguely  and  shook  her  head. 
"  Meanin*  what  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Meanin'  as  'e's  gointer  marry  yew  !  *'  ex- 
plained the  stepson. 

"  Oo  is  ?  "  demanded  Granma. 

"  'Im  !  "  said  Brother  Hosken,  pointing  a 
finger  to  Granfer. 

"  That's  roight,  oold  Anna,"  corroborated 
that  person.  "  Oi'm  gointer  marry  yew,  oi 
am — in  charch.  'Tis  a  reward  fur  yeur  good 
manners." 


288  Cottage  Pie 

Granma  Hosken  stepped  forward  with 
wondering  eyes,  and  stood  up  on  a  little  grass 
plot  full  in  the  light.  Long  and  steadily  she 
gazed  upon  the  company,  and  with  particu- 
lar steadiness  upon  Granfer.  And  then  she 
pointed  the  coal-shovel  towards  his  chest, 
and  spoke. 

**  What  about  that  fower  shellin'  what  you 
took  for  the  apples  on  Setterday,  Grarrnfer 
Harsken  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  'Ave  yew 
toold  yewr  children  about  that  ?  Fower 
shellin'  apple-money  throwed  into  the  beer- 
can  !  An'  the  table-spread  'e  wur  bringin* 
'oom  for  sartin,  an'  me  as  good  as  chose  it ! 
Talk  to  me  about  the  apple-money,  Grarrnfer 
Harsken — that's  what  yew  got  to  talk  about, 
'stead  o'  tomfool  nonsense  about  merryin'  ! 

"  Merry,  indeed !  Pray  now,  oi  niver 
'eerd  the  loikes  un  it !  Me  turn  round  at  moi 
age  and  merry  'im — *IM  THEER — an'  un's 
beer-can.  Whoi,  pray,  oi'd  be  a  larrfin'- 
stuck  to  arl  the  town  ! 

"  An*  besoides,"  added  Granma,  after  a  long 
silence,  as  she  stitched  a  piece  of  dusting  cloth 
into  the  tattered  back  of  one  of  Granfer's 
shirts — and  listened  for  kettle  murmurs  from 
within — and  flicked  a  wasp  from  Granfer's 
neck — "besoides,"  said  Granma,  "oi'dwanter 


The  Little  Red  Man  289 

be  sure  oi  loved  a  mahn  afower  oi  merried 
'im! 

"  The  idea !  "  spluttered  Granma,  after 
another  pause.     "  The  idea  /  " 

And  a  solitary  little  red  man  appeared  on 
the  roof-top,  and  shook  himself  with  laughter, 
as  the  sun  went  down. 


XXXII 

THE  CASE  OF  EMMA  WICKS 

I  WAS  riding  on  the  Blowfield  Mercury,  a  pair- 
horsed  conveyance  which  has  been  travelling 
between  the  railway-station  at  Mill  Gate  and 
the  Bell  at  Blowfield  for  one  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  and  which  is  still  able  to  cover  the 
distance  that  separates  these  landmarks  at 
the  mercurial  speed  of  two  miles  in  forty-five 
minutes.  I  would  not  mention  the  Blowfield 
Mercury  at  all  except  that  this  express  con- 
veyance was  the  scene  of  my  meeting  with 
Emma  Wicks. 

The  Blowfield  Mercury  is  driven  by  Amos 
Pranklin,  and  conducted  by  his  nephew,  a 
stout  young  gentleman  with  a  deep  com- 
plexion, whom  the  masculine  passengers  ad- 
dress as  "  Will  "  and  the  ladies  as  "  Dearie." 

I  had  always  supposed  that  William's 
ample  figure  and  rich  colouring  arose  from  his 
way  of  living,  that  they  were,  in  fact,  a 
physical  tribute  to  the  generosity  of  a  grate- 
ful public.  But  Amos  Pranklin,  his  uncle, 
with  whom  I  am  fairly  intimate,   one  day 

290 


The  Case  of  Emma  Wicks     291 

confided  in  me  the  painful  truth.  "  'Tis  a 
sad  thing,  this  about  young  William,"  he 
said. 

"  What  thing  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Ain't  you  'eard,  then  ?  "  returned  old 
Amos.  **  'Tis  a  pubHc  affair  in  Blowfield, 
though  sad  and  private  in  its  nature. 
Young  William,  *e  'ave  got  a  strange  com- 
plaint :  'e  'ave  got  but  one  safety-valve  to 
'is  'eart.  The  doctors  they  put  that  down  to 
a  surfeit  o'  green  gooseberries  what  'is  mo'er 
she  eat.  The  upshot  o'  the  matter  be  that 
young  William  'e  be  liable  to  go  off,  off  at  any 
minute,  same  as  a  biler  what's  valves  be 
wrong.  If  you  was  to  talk  to  William  sudden, 
or  to  shoot  off  a  gun  be'int  of  'im,  or  argue  with 
'im,  or  cross  'im,  'e  would  like  as  not  fall  dead 
in  a  minute — 'im  'avin'  but  one  safety-valve 
to  'is  'eart,  which  is  liable  to  blow  up  with 
excitement." 

This  alarming  intelligence  not  only  ex- 
plained poor  William's  figure  and  complexion  ; 
it  also  explained  the  affectionate  attitude  of 
his  lady  passengers,  and  the  consideration  and 
deference  which  is  shown  to  him  even  by 
grown  men.  **  Onderstand  my  meanin',  now," 
explained  his  uncle  ;  **  there  be  no  fear  o' 
haccidents  so  long  as  the  lad  be  handled 


292  Cottage  Pie 


gentle ;  'tis  on'y  a  sudden  shock  as  could 
destroy  him.  He  be  otherwise  'ealthy — three- 
an'-twenty  years  last  birthday,  and  stood 
be'ind  this  'bus  yere  for  nigh  on  ten  year. 
Properly  'andled  'e  may  last  a  lifetime  ;  but 
any  sudden  shock,  that  would  destroy  'im, 
'im  'avin'  but  one  safety-valve  to  'is  'eart." 

I  would  not  mention  William  and  his  sad 
affliction  in  this  place  at  all,  but  for  the  fact 
that  they  exercised  an  important  influence 
upon  my  meeting  with  Emma  Wicks. 

On  the  occasion  of  which  I  write,  I  had  been 
fortunate  enough,  by  exercising  the  virtues 
of  punctuality  and  prompt  endeavour,  to 
secure  one  of  the  two  coveted  places  on  the 
Blowfield  Mercury's  box-seat.  Here  I  was 
comfortably  established  when,  within  a 
minute  of  the  scheduled  starting  -  time, 
William  appeared  and  politely  requested 
me  to  climb  down. 

"  Our  vicar,"  he  explained,  **  is  wishful  to 
travel,  and  he  alius  *ave  that  seat.  Plenty  o' 
room  inside." 

The  occupant  of  the  other  box-seat  was  a 
lady  ;  I  looked  at  her  and  perceived  that  she 
was  looking  at  William.  There  was  in  her  eyes 
an  expression  of  affectionate,  maternal  sym- 
pathy.     It   suddenly   occurred   to   me   that 


The  Case  of  Emma  IVicks     293 

William  was  short  of  a  safety-valve.  One 
must  not  cross  him  ;  if  crossed,  he  would  fall 
down  dead.  I  hastily  descended  from  my 
lofty  perch  and  made  room  for  the  vicar, 
who  rewarded  me  with  a  quick  nod. 

Thus  it  was  that  entering  the  old-world 
interior  of  the  Blowfield  Mercury,  I  became 
acquainted  with  Emma — and  not  only  with 
Emma,  but  with  mo'er  and  god-aunt  as 
well. 

The  latter  ladies  looked  at  me  sourly  when 
I  came  in.  One  of  them — who  was  even  more 
middle-aged  and  ugly  than  the  other — tugged 
at  her  bonnet-strings  and  spoke. 

"  Talk  about  hovens  !  "  she  said. 

The  other  middle-aged  lady  at  once  ad- 
dressed herself  to  the  girl  at  her  side.  "  D'year 
that,  Emma  ?    Ye're  god-aunt  say  'tis  close." 

"  Yes,  mo'er,"  responded  Emma. 

**  Then  open  a  window,  ye  dolt,"  com- 
manded mo'er. 

Emma  again  said,  **  Yes,  mo'er,"  and  did 
as  she  was  told,  with  the  result  that  we  were 
immediately  visited  by  the  pungent,  dust- 
laden  breath  of  a  passing  motor-car.  The 
older  ladies  at  once  performed  a  duet  of  cough- 
ing. Enmia's  mother,  sweeping  her  daughter 
aside,  charged  into  the  window  and  shut  it 


294  Cottage  Pie 

again.  "  Always  in  sich  'aste,  you  be,"  cried 
Emma's  mother.  "  Couldn't  wait  a  minute, 
I  suppose,  till  the  motor  pass  ?  Of  course  you 
couldn't.  Mercy  as  god-aunt  ain't  choke 
'erself." 

"  Better  now,  dear  ?  "  murmured  Emma's 
mother,  with  tenderness,  seating  herself  by 
god-aunt's  side.  God-aunt  offered  no  re- 
sponse. She  had  fastened  her  gaze  upon 
Emma — she  was  regarding  that  young  woman 
with  an  air  of  stern  distaste.  Mo'er  followed 
her  eyes,  and  a  look  of  displeasure  and  im- 
patience immediately  appeared  on  mo'er's 
face.  "  Emma  Wicks,"  she  demanded 
shrilly,  "  what  be  you  readin'  ?  " 

Emma  started  and  eyed  her  mother  with 
a  guilty  blush.  "  Nothin'  much,  mo'er,"  she 
said ;  "  on'y  what  the  buns  was  wrapped 
in." 

"  Put  it  away  !  "  commanded  mo'er.  "  You 
know  ye're  god-aunt  can't  abear  to  see  folk 
readin'." 

"  I  should  'a'  thought,"  observed  the  lady 
in  question,  "  'as  'er  brother  Thomas  would 
'a'  been  a  warning  to  her.  It  be  on'y  this 
readin'  what  sent  poor  Thomas  into  gaol." 

"  That  an'  mixing  them  milk  accounts," 
assented  mo'er.     "  But  there  !     'Tis  in  the 


The  Case  of  Emma  JVicks     295 

blood.  Their  father  bean't  no  better.  The 
way  'e  do  read  an'  read !  That  man,  'e  spend 
a  fourpence  on  the  football  papers  every  week 
of  'is  life." 

"  Huh  !  "  commented  god-aunt,  "  and  *im 
supposed  to  be  so  ill !  Whatever  be  that 
Emma  fiddlin'  over  now  ?  You  wouldn't 
think  a  fool  like  she  be  could  own  a  sister  same 
as  Fanny." 

"  That  you  wouldn't,"  assented  mo'er. 
"  There  be  more  sense  in  Fanny's  li'l  finger 
than  that  girl  got  in  all  'er  big,  fat  'ead." 

"  Fanny  got  a  better  'eart,  too,"  asserted 
god-aunt. 

"  R !  "  said  mo'er,  "  and  a  more  nat'ral 
figger.  She  be  comin'  on  fine  wi'  the  zither- 
playin',  too  !  " 

God-aunt  nodded  sagely.  "  I  shall  send 
you  some  money  for  more  lessons,"  she  said. 
"  Li'l  Fanny  shall  not  go  in  want  so  long  as 
ever  'er  pore  old  god-mo' er  be  alive.  There's 
a  future  in  front  of  Fanny,  so  soon  as  she  get 
'er  'air  up." 

"  Meaning  young  W.  ?  "  suggested  mo'er. 

"  Now  then  !  "  commanded  god-aunt,  erect- 
ing a  massive  forefinger  and  smiling  fatly. 
"  No  tales  !  " 

"  Bless  you,"  responded  mo'er,  "  I  do  not 


296  Cottage  Pie 

wish  to  make  no  tittle-tattle.  Though  I  will 
say  this  of  Fanny — she  be  on'y  her  god-mo'er 
over  again.  What  ?  Do  you  remember  that 
Jevins  boy,  Nell  ?  And  young  'Erbert  ? 
And  the  gentleman  what ?  " 

"  Hee,  hee  !  Give  over  now  !  "  cried  god- 
aunt,  once  more  establishing  the  forefinger. 
"  Let  bygones  be  bygones,  Kate.  If  Fanny 
do  take  after  poor  ole  god-mo'er,  the  dear 
li'l  thing  shan't  suffer  for  it.  You  shall  'ave 
the  money  for  them  zither  lessons,  Kate.  As 
for  that  Emma  there,  with  'er  solemn  ways 
and  'er  politeness  and  'er  independence  and 

what  not,  why "    A  shrug  of  the  shoulder 

suggested  those  sentiments  which  a  native 
delicacy  prevented  god-aunt  from  expressing 
in  speech.  "  Be  you  decided  what  to  make 
of  'er  ?  " 

**  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  responded  mo'er, 
"  I  be.  I  come  to  a  conclusion  this  very 
morning,  when  she  spill  the  teapot  over 
father's  'at — the  clumsy  howl !  That  girl  be 
no  manner  o'  good  in  the  'ouse.  No  good  at 
all." 

"  No  good  at  all,"  repeated  god-aunt.  "  Too 
stupid." 

**  An'  too  wilful,"  said  mo'er.  "  She  be 
that  clumsy,  too.    And  so  quiet.    No  life  in 


The  Case  of  Emma  JVicks     297 

*er.  An'  so  careless.  No  more  to  be  de- 
pended on  than — than  that  cushion  !  " 

"  R  !  "  sighed  god-aunt. 

**  She  don't  remember  'bove  a  'arf  o'  what 
you  tell  her.  She  don't  appear  to  take  no 
pride  in  anything.  That  seem  as  if  the  spirit 
be  washed  out  of  'er.  Same  as  if  anybody 
knocked  'er  about." 

**  R  !  "  repeated  god-aunt. 

"  She  be  that  careless,  too !  Break  nigh 
everything  she  touch.  And  she  be  that  dis- 
obedient. A  liar  also.  No  use  in  the  'ouse 
at  all.  She  can't  cook  nor  she  can't  sew  ;  and 
she  be  so  lazy  an'  that  dirty.  No  use  in  the 
'ouse  at  all.    And  so " 

"  And  so  ?  "  queried  god-aunt. 

"  And  so,"  concluded  Emma's  mo'er,  "  I 
be  sending  'er  into  service." 


XXXIII 
EL  DORADO 


"  Oi  wish  Oi  be  in  Canada,  buildin'  me  own 
constructures  !  "  said  young  Bill  Soames. 

He  was  helping  Daddy  Reach  to  build  up 
and  renovate  the  old  three-step  stile  at  the 
bottom  of  Goddard's  Piece.  And  having 
marched  (in  no  inconspicuous  position,  let 
me  say)  among  the  agitatory  forces  which 
had  compelled  a  supine  parish  Duma  to 
undertake  this  public  work,  I  considered  it  a 
duty,  as  well  as  a  pleasure,  to  superintend  it 
on  behalf  of  the  ratepayers.  I  kept  a  particu- 
larly sharp  eye  on  the  parish  nail-bag,  having 
heard  it  whispered  that  Daddy  Reach  has 
openly  declared  himself  to  be  in  favour  of 
Sharing  out.  Free  Love,  the  Break-up  of  the 
Family,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

I  may  say  here  that  this  stile  is  now  as 
firm  and  comely  a  stile  as  any  which  you  may 
find  within  five  miles  of  our  parish.  And  one 
or  two  of  us,  if  not  one  only,  are  entitled  to 
take  all  the  credit  for  this  happy  state  of 
things.    Until  a  week  or  so  ago,  when  one  of 

298 


El  Dorado  299 


us  wrote  a  stinging  letter  to  the  Council  Clerk, 
it  might  safely  be  said  that  the  stile  at  the 
bottom  of  Goddard's  Piece  was  a  disgrace 
to  England.  The  richest  country  in  the 
world,  if  you  please,  and  our  stile  at  Goddard's 
Piece  dead  rotten  ! 

But  to  return  to  young  Bill  Soames  and 
Daddy  Reach.  Seated  there  as  I  was,  doing 
my  duty  by  the  parish  nail-bag,  I  could  not 
help  but  listen  to  their  vulgar  conversation. 
When  young  Soames  expressed  the  wish 
which  I  have  recorded  above,  the  old  man 
made  an  ugly  face  at  him,  and  accompanied 
that  action  with  a  contemptuous  gesture,  at 
the  same  time  uttering  a  noise  which  was 
intended  to  counterfeit  the  quacking  of  a 
duck. 

Bill  Soames,  who  was  driving  home  the 
stout  oaken  stakes  which  were  to  form  the 
mainstay  of  our  new  stile  at  the  bottom  of 
Goddard's  Piece,  arrested  his  hammer  in 
mid-air. 

**  Whoi  be  ye  pullin'  that  ugly  fool's  face, 
yoo'ld  devil  ?  "  demanded  young  Mr.  Soames. 

"  Whoi  be  ye  talkin'  that  silly  fool's  talk  ?  " 
responded  his  foreman. 

**  Bean't  naarthun'  foolish  in  what  Oi  say," 
protested  Bill.    **  Oi  say  as  Oi  should  like  to 


300  Cottage  Pie 

be  in  Canada,  buildin*  me  own  construc- 
tures." 

"  Ought  to  be  in  Earlswood,  nursin'  ye're 
pore  *ead,"  grunted  Daddy  Reach.  .  .  . 
"  What  good  be  ye  goo'ner  get  out  o' 
Canada  ?  " 

Young  William,  winking  loudly,  tapped  his 
pocket.  "  There's  farm  'ands  in  Canada  gain- 
ing two-pund  ten  a  week,"  he  remarked.  "  A 
bloke  could  soon  be  buildin'  stiles  upon  his 
own  land  at  that  rate." 

Daddy  Reach  brought  out  his  little  black 
pipe  and  filled  it  slowly  (in  the  parish  time). 
*'  Buy,"  he  said,  after  having  lighted  the  pipe 
to  his  thorough  satisfaction,  "  you  be  a 
silly,  half-growed  calf,  and  ye  doon't  know 
naarthun'.  Oi  will  tell  ye  for  whoi.  Oi  be 
a  travelled  man  meself,  as  Oi  dessay  you've 
a-'eered  folk  say " 

**  Oi've  a-'eered  you  say  ut,"  interpolated 
William. 

"  That  surprise  me,  too,"  responded  Daddy 
quietly,  "  for  Oi  don't  sim  to  recklect  as  ever 
Oi  honoured  you  with  me  conversation  afore 
to-day.  Anyways,  ef  there's  anythin'  you 
'ear  me  say,  ye  may  rely  upon  the  truth  of  it, 
me  not  belongun  to  a  chapel-gooun  family, 
same's  some  folk.    And  one  thing  Oi  will  say 


El  Dorado  301 


to  you  now,  an'  that  is  this  :  Let  you  stay  at 
'00m,  me  buy  :  you  got  a  thick  'ead  and  a 
stout  'eart  and  a  narrer  belly,  same's  me ; 
and  all  as  they  there  gifts  be  good  for  is  to  do 
a  long  day's  work  and  am  a  long  day's  wages. 
And  they  wages  be  the  same  wherever  you  be 
— whether  'tis  Canada  or  New  Zealand  or 
California,  or  the  Cape  of  Good  'Ope,  Oi  bin 
to  all  they  places,  Oi  *ave,  and  Oi  don't  speak 
naarthun'  on'y  what  Oi  know.'' 

"  Then  you  forgot  a  good  deal,  old  man," 
replied  young  William  scornfully.  "  For 
anybody  as  'a  bin  to  school  will  tell  ye  that 
the  wages  be  different  in  all  they  places, 
accordin*  to  'ow  far  you  be  from  London. 
There's  men  in  New  Zealand — farm  labourers 
— what  earns  their  three  pun  ten  a  week." 

"  Aye,  lad,"  assented  Daddy  Reach,  "  and 
there's  men  upon  the  railway  in  British 
Cl'umbia  —  ordinary  plate-layers  —  what's 
gainin*  their  twenty  pund  a  month.  That 
Oi  can  tell  ye  from  me  own  knowledge  and 
experience,  though  Oi  bean't  never  nigh  no 
school — nor  chapel  neether." 

"  Then  more  fool  you,"  returned  young 
William,  "  for  to  talk  sich  nonsense.  Bein' 
as  'ow  you  know  so  much,  'ow  come  ye  to 
tell  we  as  there  worn't  no  difference  'twixt 


302  Cottage  Pie 

the  furrin'  wages  and  our  own  ?  Twenty 
pund  a  month  is  fi'  pund  a  week,  same's  you 
would  know  if  ever  you  'ad  bin  to  school." 

"  Twenty  pund  a  month  (in  British  Cl'um- 
bia),"  replied  old  Reach,  "  is  bad  food  and 
bad  lodgin'  and  enough  bad  licker  fur  to  get 
drunk  on  of  a  Saturday  night.  And  two 
pund  ten  a  week  in  Canada,  that  be  poorer 
food  and  poorer  lodgin',  and  poorer  licker 
still.  'Tis  no  good  for  to  count  a  labourin* 
man's  wage  in  punds  and  pence,  though  that 
be  a  favourite  error  what  folk  go  for  to  larn 
in  school  and  chapel." 

"  School  or  no  school,"  responded  young 
Bill  Soames,  "  a  pund  is  a  pund,  and  a  penny 
is  a  penny." 

"  And  a  long  day's  work,"  said  Mr.  Reach, 
*'  is  a  long  day's  work,  fit  on'y  for  them  as 
'as  thick  heads,  strong  'earts,  and  a  narrer 
belly.  And  the  price  of  a  long  day's  work  is 
a  long  day's  pay — bad  lodgin*,  bad  food,  bad 
licker.  They  calls  it  two-and-sixpence  'ere, 
on  Goddard's  Piece  ;  they  calls  it  fifteen  bob 
in  British  C'lumbia.  But  'tis  the  same  thing 
wherever  you  be ;  and  when  you  be  growed 
old  and  ye're  belly  be  growed  narrer,  there's 
stones  to  break." 

"  You  got  a  lot  to  say,"  observed  young 


El  Dorado  303 

Bill ;  "I  dessay  as  you  think  you  knows. 
Oi  shid  like  to  'ear  the  genelman's  opinion 
of  ye." 

The  gentleman  being  thus  appealed  to 
could  say  nothing,  save  that  rates  were  going 
up,  and  folk  were  getting  cheeky,  and  that 
common  workmen  ought  to  know  their 
place  and  keep  it. 


XXXIV 

HALF-MOURNING 


There  was  not  the  remotest  reason  in  life 
why  Polly  Gedge  should  entertain  me  to  tea 
and  Sussex  brown-cake  this  afternoon.  I 
had  only  called  in  for  a  score  of  eggs.  But  she 
and  her  speckled  hens  and  her  old  half -Jersey 
cow  are  noted  for  their  cheerfulness  and 
hospitality  throughout  this  country-side. 

Besides,  Miss  Gedge  supposed  herself  to 
have  a  reason  for  offering  me  this  kindness. 

"  I  got  a  sister  yare,"  she  said,  **  as  be  come 
this  arternoon  from  furrin'  parts.  I  are  not 
sin  *er  for  fifteen  years  :  and  no  more  changed 
than  they  there  old  bellowses  in  the  chimbley 
corner,  what  she  taught  me  the  mastery  of 
when  I  be  so  'igh." 

With  this  preface,  and  setting  at  naught 
my  reluctant  improvisations,  Miss  Gedge  con- 
ducted me  into  her  parlour,  where  a  middle- 
aged  lady  was  drinking  tea.  This  lady  was 
introduced  to  me  as  Mrs.  O'Hara. 

"  She  come  from  abroad — from  Dublin," 
said  Polly  Gedge,  in  performing  the  ceremony 

304 


Half'Moitriiing  305 

of  introduction.  "  She  got  her  own  public- 
house  in  Dublin,  and  six  villas  and  a  pony- 
shay.  Mr.  O'Hara  left  *er  very  well  off, 
though  he  did  drink  'isself  to  death." 

Mrs.  O'Hara  offered  me  a  bow  in  harmony 
with  the  very  stiff  silk  dress  which  formed 
the  essential  part  of  her  toilet.  Then  she 
went  on  with  her  tea. 

"  Don't  you  mind  each  other,  either  of  you," 
said  Polly  Gedge,  in  the  kindly  hope  of  placing 
us  both  at  ease.  "  The  young  gentleman,  'e 
look  that  'ot,  Susan,  I  felt  bound  to  offer  'im 
a  cup." 

Susan  performed  a  reproduction  of  the 
bow. 

"  We  needn't  take  no  notice  of  'im," 
continued  Polly,  "  and  he  needn't  take  no 
notice  of  us.  I've  obliged  the  young  gentleman 
with  eggs  for  nearly  two  yare  now,  and  I'm 
sure  as  he  be  very  welcome  to  'is  cup  of  tea. 
Don't  be  shy  of  the  radishes,  sir,  and  there's 
another  cake  in  the  oven.  Make  a  good  tea, 
sir ;  we  shan't  take  any  notice  of  you.  Me 
and  my  sister  we  are  not  seen  each  other  for 
more'n  fifteen  yare.  What  was  I  tellin'  you, 
Susan  ?  " 

"  About  a  girl  named  Maggie,  which  you  say 
I  was  acquainted  with." 


3o6  Cottage  Pie 

"  Certainly  you  be  acquainted  with  her," 
insisted  Miss  Gedge.  "  'Er  an'  you  was 
schoolmates." 

"  The  name  of  Maggie  is  one  I  don't  call 
back  to  mem'ry,"  responded  Mrs.  O'Hara. 

**  Why,  you  walked  out  with  her  cousin." 

"  Meanin'  James  ?  " 

"  That's  right  :    Jim,"  assented  Polly. 

"  I  remember  James  all  right,"  admitted 
the  visitor.  "  What  sort  to  look  at  was  this 
Maggie  ?  " 

"  Red  'air  and  spectacles.  Was  wicket- 
keeper  at  the  stool-ball." 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  O'Hara.  "  0/?./ you  can't 
never  mean  the  young  woman  we  useder  call 
Carrots  ?  " 

"  'Tis  the  same,"  assented  Polly.  "  'Er 
what  pull  you  outer  the  pond  when  you  be 
so  nigh  drowned  that  day  ye're  comb  fall 
in." 

"  Yes,"  mused  the  lady  in  silk  ;  "  she  was 
a  strongly  built  young  woman.  What  of 
'er  ?  " 

"  'Tis  she  as  kep'  'ouse  for  the  old  lady  I 
was  telHn'  of :  'er  old  Aunt  Ellen,  as  lived  over 
be  Holding  Bottom.  You  must  remember 
Maggie's  old  Aunt  Ellen.  Mrs.  Sucking  as 
was.     She  married  a  schoolmaster  for  the 


Half-Mourning  307 

second  time — a  genelman  named  Pimley  ;  not 
over  nor  above  'andsome  'e  was.  You  must 
remember  Maggie's  old  Aunt  Ellen  !  " 

Mrs.  O'Hara  shook  her  head. 

"  A  thin  old  lady,  as  turned  the  music  for 
the  organ  in  the  chapel." 

**  Ah  !  "  cried  Mrs.  O'Hara,  sitting  upright 
with  a  gesture  of  enlightenment.  "  Old  lady 
with  silver  candlesticks  ?  " 

"  That's  right,"  cried  Polly.  "  I  hnowed 
you  must  remember  Maggie's  old  Aunt  Ellen." 

"  And  what  of  'er  ?  "  demanded  the  visitor. 

"  Oh,"  responded  Polly,  "  she's  dead." 

"  Dear,  dear,"  murmured  Mrs.  O'Hara. 
"  Does  anybody  ever  'ear  anything  of  that 
wild  young  nephew  she  so  valued  ?  " 

This  time  Polly  looked  bewildered.  "  I 
don't  seem  to  rek'lect,"  she  said,  "  as  ever 
Maggie's  old  Aunt  Ellen  'ad  a  nephew.  There 
was  a  brother.    'E  'ad  the  farm  at  Blowfield." 

"  Hi  am  talking  of  the  nephew,"  said  Mrs. 
O'Hara  stiffly. 

**  'Tis  the  brother  you  mean,"  insisted 
Polly.    *'  Stout  party  with  a  red  face." 

"  Hi — am — talking — of — the — nephew,"  re- 
peated Mrs.  O'Hara,  with  a  determined  air. 

**  Maggie's  old  Aunt  Ellen,  she  was  one  of 
two  :    she  on'y  'ad  the  one  brother — 'im  at 


3o8  Cottage  Pie 


Blowfield.  There  was  never  a  nephew  between 
them.  Maggie's  mother,  she  'ad  a  nephew. 
A  reckless  young  fellow  what  went  to  prison 
for  writing  'is  name  on  a  pension  paper." 

"  There  you  are !  "  cried  Mrs.  O'Hara 
triumphantly.  **  That's  just  the  one  I  mean. 
I  toli  you  there  was  a  nephew." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Polly ;  "  Maggie's 
mother's  nephew.  Dark-' aired  fellow,  gettin* 
on  for  forty,  though  'e  looked  younger. 
Useder  walk  out  with  a  cook  at  the  'All." 

Mrs.  O'Hara  nodded.  "  Played  the  concer- 
tina," she  added. 

"  Joined  the  Yeomanry,  too,  for  a  bit," 
supplemented  Polly. 

"  'E  was  groom  for  a  while  at  Doctor  Simp- 
son's, if  I  remember  rightly,"  suggested  the 
visitor. 

"  He  done  a  bit  at  every  think,"  responded 
Polly.  "  His  sister  married  the  'arness-maker 
at  Barnfield." 

"  Tall  girl  with  a  short  leg  ?  " 

"  That's  right." 

"  Name  of  Looper,  same  as  his.  'Arry 
Looper  :   that  was  his  name.    Well  ?  " 

**  Oh,  '^'s  dead,"  responded  Polly. 

"  And  the  sister  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  be  married  to  the  'arness-maker 


Half-Mourning  309 

at  Barnfield.  She  don't  keep  cottage  comp'ny 
no  more." 

*'  And  the  pore  old  aunt  ?  " 

"  Maggie's  mother,  you  mean,"  suggested 
Polly. 

"  So  you  say,"  suggested  Mrs.  O'Hara. 

"  She's  dead,  too,"  said  Polly.  "  'Tis  'er 
you  mean,  for  certain.  Maggie's  old  Aunt 
Ellen,  she  never  'ad  no  nephew,  only  the  one 
old  brother  up  at  Blowfield.  You  must  re- 
member Maggie's  uncle  up  at  Blowfield." 

"  No,"  said  the  visitor. 

**  'Im  what  so  'ated  the  Gyppos  !  "  con- 
tinued Polly.    "  'Im  what  shot  the  Gyppo  ?  " 

"  No,"  repeated  the  visitor. 

"  'Ad  'is  thumb  shot  off  in  a  quarrel," 
added  Polly,  filling  in  the  outline  with  hopeful 
zeal. 

"I  do  not  rekerlect  the  man,"  asserted 
Mrs.  O'Hara.  "  Seems  to  have  been  always 
shooting." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Polly.  **  It  was  in  his 
nature.  You  must  remember  Maggie's  uncle, 
Susan.    He's  give  you  many  a  apple." 

**  I  tell  you,"  cried  Susan,  with  a  dangerous 
calm,  "  that  I  do  not  remember  'im  !  " 

•'  Ah  well,"  reflected  Polly,  "  he's  dead, 
at  all  events." 


XXXV 

AUNTIE'S  HUSBAND 


She  wanted  to  buy  my  trousers,  and  I  did  not 
want  to  sell  my  trousers. 

She  was  a  pertinacious  old  woman  with 
brown  skin  and  jaggy  teeth.  She  wore  ear- 
rings and  bangles  in  great  number,  and  an 
orange-coloured  scarf,  variously  spotted.  Her 
hair  was  silver-roan.  She  said  she  was  my 
aunt. 

"  Take  your  foot  away  from  my  door  and 
move  on,"  I  said.  "  I  have  a  use  for  my 
trousers." 

"  Now,  don't  ya  make  fun  o*  ye're  aunt, 
young  man,"  replied  this  blood  relation. 
"  Don't  you  come  no  'ank  wiv  Auntie.  Fetch 
out  ye're  duds,  my  lad,  an*  let  yere  Auntie 
run  the  rule  over  'em.  My  name  ain't  Auntie 
Free  for  nothink.  There  ain't  another  lady 
on  the  road  as  kin  touch  my  prices  be  two 
shillin'  in  the  pound.    Fetch  out  the  trucks  !  " 

"  You  can't  have  my  trousers,"  I  expostu- 
lated.   **  To-morrow  is  market  day." 

"  Good  chanst  to  get  yesilf  a  decent  out- 
310 


Aunties  Husband  311 

fit,'*  responded  Auntie.  "  Ain't  you  got  on'y 
the  one  pair  ?  " 

I  stared  at  Auntie's  ear-rings  in  dignified 
silence. 

"  Because,"  pursued  that  voluble  lady, 
**  you  better  come  and  'ave  a  look  in  my 
barrer.  Git  a  stick  and  turn  'em  all  over. 
There's  a  pair  in  my  barrer  as  was  made  for 
Lord  George  Sanger." 

"  If  you  would  move  your  foot  I  could 
shut  this  door,"  I  said. 

"If  you  would  fetch  out  the  kickses  I 
could  git  along,"  responded  Auntie. 

**  In  plain  EngHsh,  madam,"  I  exclaimed, 
"  I'll  be  damned  if  I  sell  you  my  trousers." 

"  In  plain  English,  sonny,"  said  my  Aunt, 
"  keep  ye're  'air  on.  Can  ye  give  me  a  drink 
o'  water  ?  " 

"It  is  a  pity,"  continued  Auntie,  sipping 
at  her  glass  with  an  air  of  the  most  elegant 
breeding,  "  that  if  you  won't  sell  me  ye're 
old  ones,  I  can't  persuade  ya  to  go  in  for 
some  new  ones — as  good  as  new,  that  is  to 
say.  I  call  ya  a  cross-grained  young  feller  in 
the  matter  o'  trousers.  If  people  won't  sell 
they  do  gen'ly  buy.  Can't  I  get  ya  to  look  at 
a  very  'andsome  pair  o'  ridin'-breeks  ?  I 
bought   'em,   reely,    for   my   little   'usband. 


312  Cottage  Pie 

They  are  doe-skin,  and  was  made  for  a 
country  squire.  Fit  to  go  steeple-chasin'  in. 
I  bought  'em,  reely,  for  my  little  sweet'eart.'* 

"  Is  he  a  steeple-chaser  ?  " 

"  'Oo  a  steeple-chaser  ?  " 

"  Your  little — er — husband." 

"  Cert'nly  not,"  responded  Auntie.  "  'E's 
a  gentleman.  Before  I  'ad  'im,  'e  drove  a  milk- 
van.  I  soon  fetched  'im  out  o'  that.  Such  a 
well-made  little  man.  'E  was  wasted  in  a 
milk- van." 

"  Does  he  also  deal  in — ah — sartorial  an- 
tiques  " 

"  D'ye  mean  the  clobber  line  ?  "  asked 
Auntie.  , 

I  nodded. 

"  My  God,  no  !  "  cried  Auntie.  "  I  tell 
ya  'e's  a  gentleman.  I  don't  allow  'im  to  do 
nothin'  on'y  go  to  'is  slate  club  an'  make  up 
my  bank-book.  It  would  break  'is  ole  wife's 
*eart  to  see  'im  mixed  up  along  of  the  rough 
blokes  what  follow  this  trade.  The  milk- van 
was  bad  enough,  but  this  business — oh,  my 
God  !  'E  got  curly  black  'air  and  white  teeth 
and  a  dandy  waist.  'E's  all  right,  I  kin  tell 
ya — my  little  'usband." 

"  Have  you  had  him  long,  ma'am  ?  "  I 
inquired. 


Aunties  Husband  313 

"  Five  year,"  answered  Auntie.  "  I've  'ad 
others,  of  course  ;  but  none  o'  them  was  the 
equal  o'  this  one.  My  God — what  teeth  and 
'air  !    It  would  break  my  'eart  to  lose  'im." 

I  expressed  the  hope  that  there  was  no 
immediate  prospect  of  Auntie's  suffering  so 
tragic  a  bereavement. 

*'  Well,"  said  Auntie,  with  some  gloom, 
"  'e  got  none  too  good  a  appetite.  I  think 
the  milk- van  weakened  'im.  'E  got  a  delicate 
constitution.  'Is  teeth  might  be  false  and 
'is  'air  a  wig  to  see  'ow  beautiful  they  are.  I 
found  'im  a  little  Noomarket  coat  this  morn- 
ing. That'll  please  my  little  sweet'eart,  I  lay. 
'Elp  to  keep  'im  warm,  -too,  poor  little 
bleater. 

*'  If  I  was  to  lose  'im''  pursued  my  Aunt, 
"  what's  gointer  become  o'  the  little  bit  o' 
money  I  got  put  by  ?  There's  on'y  a  lot  o' 
'ulkin'  sons  belonging  to  me,  what's  all  got 
barrers  o'  their  own  be  this  time.  And 
wives." 

I  ventured  to  submit  that  the  sons  would, 
no  doubt,  succeed  in  finding  useful  employ- 
ment for  Auntie's  little  savings. 

"  Their  wives  would,"  answered  Auntie. 
"  Think  I  worked  'ard  all  me  days,  and 
married  a  ugly,  ill-tempered  man  like  their 


314  Cottage  Pie 

father  was,  to  leave  me  money  to  a  pack  o' 
greedy  women  ?  Not  me.  Let  them  work 
for  their  money,  same  as  I've  done.  All  I 
got  is  going  to  my  little  sweet' eart — ^if  on'y 
'is  delicate  'ealth  don't  master  'im.  'Is  'air 
and  teeth  are  a  picture." 

"  Does  he  smoke  or  drink  ?  "  I  inquired — 
feeling  that  some  sort  of  intelligent  inquiry 
was  due. 

"  The  hestr  answered  Auntie,  with  em- 
phasis. 

"  Yere  Aunt  don't  stint  'im  anything. 
But  then  ya  oughter  see  the  little  nib.  My 
God,  'e's  a  beauty !  Fancy  puttin'  'air 
an'  teeth  like  them  in  a  milk- van  !  " 

**  Of  one  thing  I  am  certain,"  cried  your 
servant,  according  a  graceful  bow — "  he  has 
secured  a  most  kind  and  affectionate 
wife." 

"  Well,"  said  Auntie,  with  a  sort  of  blush, 
"  I  believe  in  actin'  decent  be  a  man.  You 
can't  'ope  to  take  all  an'  give  nothink  in  this 
world,  can  you  ?  " 

I  sighed  and  shook  my  head. 

"  Besides,"  mused  Auntie,  "  he  is  sich 
a  'andsome  little  feller.  It's  no  good  'avin' 
another  try  for  them  trousers,  I  suppose  ?  " 

**  No  good  at  all,"  I  assured  her.     "  You 


Aunties  Husband  315 

must  be  content  with  the  riding-breeches  and 
the  Newmarket  coat." 

"  Well,  well,"  responded  Auntie,  with  com- 
placency, "  per'aps  I  must.  My  little  man 
won't  'arf  cut  a  dash  at  the  slate  club  !  I 
will  say  *  Good  arternoon,  young  feller.'  " 

"  Good  afternoon,"  I  repeated  as  Auntie 
took  up  the  handles  of  her  barrow.  Then — 
an  afterthought — I  added  :  "  And  Votes  for 
Women  !  " 

"  What's  that  ?  "  demanded  Auntie,  drop- 
ping the  handles  quickly. 

"  Votes  for  Women  !  "  I  repeated. 

"  No  you  don't,"  said  Auntie. 

"  But  I  do,"  I  protested.    "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  echoed  Auntie.  "  I'll  tell 
you  why  not.  Them  screechin'  suffergettes  is 
a  disgrace.  They  oughter  git  a  smack  be'ind 
the  ear ;  that's  what  they  oughter  git. 
Settin'  theirselves  up  to  be  as  good  as  men. 
Why  don't  they  sit  atome  and  mind  the 
'ouse  ?  " 

"  They  haven't  all  got  model  husbands," 
I  submitted. 

"  Then  why  don't  they  look  arter  'em 
better  ?  "  inquired  Auntie. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"  If  all  their  'usbands  was  as  good  as  mine 


3i6  Cottage  Pie 

— ser  nicely  be'aved  ;  the  same  fine  'air  and 
teeth — ^it  would  on*y  be  wasted  on  'em. 
Parcel  of  screechin'  parrots.  Y'ought.er  'eai 
my  little  bloke's  opinion  of  'em  !  My  Gawd, 
'e  don't  'avj  weigh  them  up."    Auntie  spat. 

And  Auntie  rubbed  her  hands  and  again 
took  up  the  handles  of  her  barrow. 

I  watched  her  push  it  up  the  road  ;  the 
road  which  led  to  London  and  the  hair  and 
teeth. 


XXXVI 
THE  LITTLE  HARE 


"  Oh  !  pray,  yes !  Aht  be  the  best  day's 
honest  poachin'  ever  oi  done — aht  be.  Oi 
took  a  proide  in  ut,  too,  seein'  as  oi  be  warkin' 
for  a  magistrate.  We  was  partners,  as  you 
moight  say." 

Old  Uncle  Gorman — "  Peeper  "  Gorman  he 
is  called  by  his  cronies — ^lay  back  in  the 
chimney  seat  of  The  Buckinghamshire  Yeo- 
man, and  sucked  at  his  pipe,  and  chuckled, 
and  wagged  his  head,  and  winked.  It  was 
evident  that  his  thoughts  afforded  him  satis- 
faction. 

**  Partners  with  a  magistrate  !  "  exclaimed 
your  servant.  "  That's  unusual,  isn't  it. 
Peeper  ?  " 

"  Unusual  ?  "  queried  Peeper.  "  You  could 
call  it  mirakerlous — an'  then  be  modest.  I 
ain't  'eerd  o'  never  another  case — eether 
before  nor  sense.  Unusual !  Aht  be  a  pore 
name  to  give  to  a  'sperience  loike  thaht 
theer." 

"  That,"  I  responded,"  is  undoubtedly  the 
317 


3i8  Cottage  Pie 


case.  I  should  have  chosen  a  more  suitable 
word." 

**  Aht's  what  oi  mean,"  said  Peeper. 

"  The  proper  word,"  I  continued  abjectly, 
*'  is  unique.  That  experience  of  yours,  Peeper, 
is  unique.  I  should  so  much  like  to  hear  about 
it." 

"  Goo'lung  with  you.  Ain*t  oi  be  set  yare 
all's  airternoon  a-tallin'  you  o'  moi  'speri- 
ences  ?  Oi  be  thaht  'usky  et'U  take  a  full 
month  ever  oi  be  fit  to  sing  in  the  choir  agen." 

This  observation  was  uttered  with  irony. 
Mr.  Gorman  does  not  possess  a  devotional 
temperament.  His  only  recorded  visit  to  a 
place  of  worship  took  place  a  great  many  years 
ago,  and  even  that  visit  had  a  purely  secular 
motive,  being  occasioned  by  Mr.  Gorman's 
interest  in  the  subject  of  ancient  leaden 
roofings. 

"  Oi  be  uncommon  'usky  !  "  murmured  Mr. 
Gorman. 

"  I  can  offer  you — a — a — cough  lozenge  !  " 
suggested  your  servant. 

**  Goo  'lung  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Gorman. 

**  Perhaps,"  I  suggested,  "a  —  a  glass 
of " 


*'  Moin's  a  quart,"  said  Mr.  Gorman. 

"  An'  as  for  thaht  le'l  'sperience  o'  moine,' 


The  Little  Hare  319 

he  continued,  without  further  hesitancy, 
**  aht  come  to  pass  alung  o*  me  bein*  un- 
fortinet.  You  'eerd  tell,  oi  dessay,  of  a  red- 
bearded  (alliteration)  be  name  o'  MuUinger 
— 'im  as  is  'ead  keeper  oover  at  the  'AH.  A 
clumsy,  'Ahmpsheer-born  love-child  'e  be, 
as  racken  'e've  lamt  the  way  to  rare  pheasants. 
Rare  pheasants,  indeed ! 

"  Oi  racken  as  le'l  Petterling  Woods  don't 
show  yairf  the  sport  to-day  nor  what  they 
done  in  oold  Alf  Lubin's  toime.  An'  not  near 
so  many  on  us  shootin'  oover  'em — not  be 
yairf. 

"  Oold  Lubin  'e  could,  rare  pheasants,  'e 
could.  Oi  knowed  the  toime,  I  *ave,  when  me 
an'  the  Squoire  alone  would  knock  oover  as 
many  birds  in  one  day  and  one  noight  as  what 
the  'ole  company  of  us  can  bring  away  in  a 
season  nowadays.  Rare  pheasants,  indeed ! 
The  red-bearded  oold  ape  ! 

"  This  chap  MuUinger  an'  me,  we  'appened 
to  run  acrost  each  other  in  the  woods  one 
noight — that  bein'  the  misfortune  what  oi 
spoke  of.  Moi  oold  mother,  she  never  give 
birth  to  no  donkeys,  ever  oi  'eerd  on  :  so 
when  that  red-bearded  oold  nanny-goat  come 
stumblin'  a-top  o'  me — me  loiin'  still,  same's 
ef  oi  be  some  oold  theng  as  belung  theer — oi 


320  Cottage  Pie 

never  made  no  argeement,  nor  oi  never 
showed  no  foight.  Aht  be  foolishness,  aht  be. 
When  you  be  cotched,  you  be  cotched,  an' 
attempted  manslaughter  ain't  gointer  ease 
yere  conscience  for  ye  :  nor  it  don't  amuse 
the  Bench. 

**  'What's  all  this  ? '  says  oold  MuUinger,  as 
he  falls  a-top  o*  me.  *  Sim  to  me,'  says  oi,  *  as 
it  be  some  red-bearded  oold  duffer  as  can't 
oold  'is  liquor.'  *  An'  what  be  thaht  ?  '  says 
'e,  pookin*  around  wi'  'is  steck.  '  Aht  be  a 
'are,'  oi  say.  Says  oold  MuUinger  :  *  Oi  see 
what  it  he  all  roight,  moi  mahn.  What  I 
meanter  say  is,  'Ow  come  it  yeer  ?  * 

"  '  Do  ye  want  the  truth  ?  '  says  oi. 

"  *  Aye,'  says  'e,  *  an'  dahm  quick.' 

"  *  Mr.  MuUinger,  sir,'  oi  says,  '  I  reckons 
to  be  a  plain  mahn.  An'  what  oi  says  is  this  : 
We  be  all  yeer — three  on  us :  you,  me,  an'  a 
oold  dead  'are.    See  ?  ' 

"  *  See  what  ?  '  says  Gingerface. 

*'  So  oi  says  it  oover  agen,  'e  bein'  a  pore, 
simple-minded  beggar,  an'  'Ahmpsheer  born 
to  boot.  *  We  be  all  yeer,'  oi  say,  *  an'  th* 
oold  'are  be  dead.' 

"  *  Meanin'  what  ?  '  says  the  poor  oold  lady. 

"  *  Meanin','  oi  says,  '  as  we  be  all  yeer — 
includin'  of  a  'are/  oi  say,  '  which  be  dead.' 


The  Little  Hare  321 

"  A  grin  come  oover  'is  oold  face,  what 
looked    a'most  whoite    in    the    moonloight. 

*  Oi   take  it,  then/  says  'e,  '  as  you   owns 
up  ?* 

"  '  You  can  take  it,'  says  oi,  '  as  we  be  arl 
yeer.  An'  the  poor  oold  'are  be  dead.  WTiich 
of  us  be  gointer  'ave  'er — you  or  me  ?  ' 

"  *  Aht  be  moi  master's  property,'  says  'e. 

*  You  leave  it  wheer  it  lay.' 

"  *  Then  oi'U  thank  you  fur  the  loan  o* 
yewer  tobacco-pouch,'  oi  say.  An'  wi'  thaht 
oi  loights  up,  an'  oi  pats  'is  pore  oold  'ead's 
koind  as  a  cushion,  an'  we  walks  away  to- 
gether, closer  an'  sweeter  nor  sweet'earts. 
There  be  no  'arm  in  oold  Mullinger.  'E  be 
just  simple. 

"  So  next  coort-day  I  otchles  up  to  Petter- 
ling,  an'  claims  me  twenty- third  conviction. 
Twenty  shillin'  an'  costs  was  the  understandin' 
what  we  come  to.  An'  oold  Squoire  Pilcher, 
from  Red  Cap  Grange,  oover  beyond  the 
valley  theer,  'e  gimme  the  Word  of  our  Lord 
in  seventeen  chapters  an'  a  psalm. 

"  'E  be  dead  now,  oold  Pilcher,  an'  not 
before  'is  toime.  A  uglier,  queesier,  nosier, 
cacklin'  oold  son  of  a  lady  never  you  saw — 
all  wind  an*  sniffle.  Reckoned  'isself  to  be  a 
botanist  or  that — for  ever  'sperimentin'  wi' 


322  Cottage  Pie 

skins  an'  skeletons  or  such-like.  Kep'  a 
museum  up  at  the  Grange,  wi*  loive  bats  in 
ut,  an'  stoats  an'  weasels,  an'  all  manner  of 
ugly  stinkin'  tackle  loike  thaht  theer.  An' 
'e  reckoned  'isself  to  be  Deputty-Lootinant 
for  the  county,  an'  Senior  Magistrate,  an* 
Professor  o'  Science,  an'  God  Awmoighty,  an' 
what  not. 

"  An'  'e  gimme  the  Word  o'  God  for  seven 
rosy  minutes  be  the  clock.  An'  when  'e  done 
wi'  me,  oi  steps  down  nippy,  an'  pays  me 
money  to  the  Clurk.  An'  when  oi  be  payin* 
of  it,  the  Clurk  'e  say  to  me,  says  'e  : 

"  '  Mr.  Pilcher,'  says  'e,  *  would  wish  you  to 
stop  be'ind,'  says  'e,  *  an'  see  *im  proivit,'  'e 
say,  *  on  a  matter  o'  business.' 

"So  oi  goes  away  to  the  'inder  end  o'  the 
Coort'ouse,  an'  theer  oi  sit,  alung  of  a  pocket- 
ful o*  filberts,  till  so  lung  as  oold  Pilcher  be 
ready  for  'is  proivut  bisnuss. 

"  An'  when  the  Coort  was  rose,  oold  Pilcher 
'e  roises  also,  and  otchles  oover  to  moi  earner. 

"'Gorman,'  says  'e,  very  brisk  an'  master- 
ful, '  oi  want  a  'are — a  loive  'are — to  do  moi 
botany  on,'  says  'e. 

"  *  Yessir,'  says  oi. 

"  *  Can  you  foind  me  one  ?  '  says  'e. 

"  Oi  looks   at   the   ugly   oold  idiot   very 


The  Little  Hare  323 

straight  an'  very  simple.  *  Oi  dessay  as  oi 
could  huy  you  one,*  says  oi. 

"  '  To-day  ?  '  *e  asks. 

**  *  Oi  dunno  'bout  to-day,'  oi  answers,  'cos 
two  can  play  at  childishness,  just's  easy  as 
one.  '  They  be  rare  uncommon  animals,'  says 
oi.  *  Maybe  there  won't  be  one  for  sale  just 
yit  awhoile,*  says  oi.  *  An'  oi  gutter  goo  a 
lungish  journey,'  says  oi,  '  'fore  I  can  make 
sure  o'  buyin'  any.' 

"  '  'Ow  much  will  it  cost  ? '  say  Squire 
Pilcher. 

"  Oi  done  a  little  'rithmatic  in  moi  yead. 
'  Two  pun  or  theerabouts,'  says  oi. 

"  '  Dear  me  !  Dear  me  !  Dear  me  ! '  says 
the  soft-'eaded  oold  genelman.  *  That's  very 
expensive,  Gorman.' 

"  *  Oi've  'ad  a  expensive  day,  sir,'  says  oi, 
lookin*  at  'im  more  simple  an'  respectful  nor 
ever. 

"  *  Well,  well,'  says  'e,  '  bring  your  'are 
alung,  an'  we'll  see  what  can  be  done.'  " 

**  That  is  all  the  story,"  said  Peeper  Gor- 
man simply,  as  he  drained  his  glass.  **  Oi 
went  snacks  with  a  magistrate,  you  see, 
same's  oi  toold  you.  It  weer  a  pleasant  'speri- 
ence." 


324  Cottage  Pie 

I  beckoned  to  the  landlord,  and  Peeper 
Gorman's  beer-mug  was  replenished. 

"  Is  that  quite  all,  Peeper  ?  "  I  then  in- 
quired. "  Have  you  told  me  everything  ? 
Did  old  Pilcher  get  his  hare  ?  " 

Mr.  Gorman  chuckled.  "  He  got  it  roight 
enough  !  "  said  he.  "  An'  yet — ^in  a  manner 
o'  speakin' — he  never  got  it.  Thaht  weer  a 
rum  stairt." 

"  How ?  " 

**  The  oold  'are  come  off  his  land,  do  you 
see  ? "  Mr.  Gorman  was  kind  enough  to 
explain.  "  Oi  caught  'im  comfortable,  'cos 
it  be  quite  a  comfortable  game,  'are-catchin* 
— to  them  as  know  it.  An'  oi  puts  oold  pussy 
in  a  le'l  sack,  an'  otchles  orf  a  matter  o'  three 
'under'  yairds  to  the  front  door  o'  the  Grange. 
An'  there  I  airsts  to  see  oold  Pilcher. 

"  I  shoos  'im  the  'are,  arl  toidy  in  'e's  le'l 
bag. 

**  '  What  do  I  pay  you  ?  '  says  the  Squoire. 
An'  I  toold  'im  same's  oi  toold  'im  afore — 
'  Two  pun  ten  !  '  oi  say. 

"  *  Well,  well !  '  says  'e,  an*  'ands  the  money 
oover,  sad  an'  sorrerful. 

"  Then  I  'and  'im  the  bag,  an'  'e  opens  the 
top  of  it.    An'  out  jumps  pussy. 

"  *  Begad,'  says  'e, '  the  'are  as  run  away  ! ' 


The  Little  Hare  325 

*e  say, — very  insulted,  same's  you  might 
expect  of  a  gentleman  in  'is  position.  *  What 
shall  I  do  ?  '  says  'e. 

'''Do?'  oi  say,  '  do  ?  Whoi,  Squoire,' 
says  oi,  *  you  take  an'  do  the  same's  oi  done  : 
you  run  airter  it  /  '  '* 


XXXVII 
PEPPER'S  COURTSHIP 


Mr.  Will  Pepper,  the  carrier,  came  to  my 
door  this  morning  with  an  air  of  repentance 
and  a  parcel  of  books. 

The  books  were  three  days  late. 

I  looked  at  Mr.  Pepper  and  Mr.  Pepper 
looked  at  the  ground. 

"  'Tis  fine  growing  weather,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Pepper,  at  last,  breaking  what  to  him 
was  evidently  a  painful  silence. 

"It  is  deuced  bad  carrying  weather,"  I 
retorted. 

"  Beg  yere  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pepper, 
"  but — to  tell  ye  the  honest  truth,  sir,  I  be 
late  along  o'  this  yere  quarter-day.  'Tis  a 
turble  busy  season,  is  quarter-day." 

"  Pepper,"  I  said,  "  you  have  been  to 
London  to  draw  your  army  pension." 

Pepper  hung  his  head. 

"  Pepper,"  I  said,  **  how  dare  you  !  " 

Pepper  touched  his  cap. 

"  Pepper,"  I  repeated,  "  how  dare  you 
go  to  London  and  spend  your  own  money 
on  beer  !  " 

326 


Peppers  Courtship  327 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Pepper,  "  'tis  a 
turble  'ard  life.    Out  in  all  weathers,  sir." 

"  But,  dash  it  all.  Pepper,"  I  retorted, 
*'  my  books  are  three  days  late." 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Pepper,  with  an  unmis 
takable  groan  of  remorse,  "  I  ax  your  par- 
don." 

"  And  then  again,  Pepper,"  I  felt  it  my 
duty  to  point  out,  "  there  is  the  wastefulness 
of  your  conduct  to  be  considered.  Thirteen 
weeks'  stipend,  the  free  and  almost  uncon- 
ditional offering  of  a  grateful  country,  spent 
in  a  flash — on  beer  !  " 

"  Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,"  murmured 
Mr.  Pepper,  pawing  the  gravel  uneasily, 
"  'tweer  not  so  much  a  matter  o'  beer  this 
journey.  'Tweer  more  in  the  nature  of  a 
young  lady,  sir." 

"  This,"  I  felt  forced  to  declare,  "  is  even 
worse.  Pepper  :  this  is  very  nearly  scanda- 
lous." 

"  Sir,"  repeated  Mr.  Pepper,  "  I  ax  your 
pardon." 

"  And  if  I  grant  it.  Pepper,  will  you 
promise  to  leave  off  wearing  that  spotty 
tie  ?  " 

"Sir,"  said  Mr.  Pepper,  "I  will— with 
a  grateful  'eart." 


328  Cottage  Pie 

"  Then,  Pepper,  old  friend,"  I  responded, 
"  here  is  my  hand.  We  will  dismiss  the 
subject  from  our  thoughts.  We  will  forget  it. 
We  will  let  bygones  be  bygones.  We  will 
direct  our  gaze  towards  the  rosy  future.  We 
will  comport  ourselves  as  though  the  past 
had  never  been. 

"  Shake  hands,  my  Pepper :  seal  thus  all  our  vows : 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  thoughts  retain." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pepper. 

"  Tie  up  your  reins,  now.  Pepper,"  I  said, 
"  and  tell  me  all  the  news.  How  was  London 
looking  ?  Did  you  meet  with  any  more  pick- 
pockets ?  " 

Mr.  Pepper  solemnly  shook  his  head.  "  I 
was  too  pure  sober  this  journey,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  'Tis  not  your  sober  sort  as  they 
folk  want  to  meddle  with.  But  one  thing 
I  did  meet,  sir,  and  that  was  a  most  queer 
young  lady.  A  most  extrai-ornarary  queer 
young  lady." 

"  She  to  whom  you  have  already  re- 
ferred ?  "  I  suggested. 

**  'Er  what  I  spook  of,"  assented  Mr. 
Pepper. 

"  I  seed  *er  first,"  continued  the  carrier. 


Peppers  Courtship  329 

"  on  'Ampstead  Common,  or  the  'Eath,  as 
they  calls  it.  I  was  gone  theer  to  look  if 
theer  was  e'er  a  donkey  to  be  found,  for  I  got 
a  fancy  for  to  run  one  in  my  li'l  'ay  cart. 
And  a  bloke  what  I  seed  in  a  public-' ouse, 
'e  tal  me  to  goo  seek  on  'Ampstead  Common 
if  'tis  donkeys  oi  be  lookin'  for.  I  seed  a 
tidy  few,  too  ;  but  they  was  all  in  the  jobbin' 
line,  an'  not  for  sale.  And  I  seed  this  'ere 
young  lady — 'er  what  I  spoke  of,  as  seem 
to  act  so  queer. 

**  She  weer  a  innercent  young  thing,  and 
pratty  to  look  at,  and  was  sot  upon  'er 
knees  a-scrufiiing  up  the  dirt  and  lookin'  sorry. 
I  touches  'er  upon  the  shoulder  and  I  rises 
my  'at  and  I  say  : 

"  '  Be  you  lookin'  for  a  umbreller  'andil, 
miss  ? ' 

"  '  That's  right,'  says  she. 

"  *  Then  I  got  ut  yere,'  I  say  :  for  I'd 
picked  it  up  near  by.  The  young  woman,  she 
look  at  me  lamb-like,  and  before  I  knowed 
'ow,  she  and  me,  we  was  a-riding  together 
on  the  same  swiss-back  and  gooun  ups-a- 
diddy  in  the  swing-boats  and  shootin'  at 
Aunt  Salley  and  throwing  the  mallet  and 
eatin'  'okey  and  lookin'  at  the  living  pictures. 
They  got  it   all   there   on   this   'Ampstead 


330  Cottage  Pie 

Common — all  day  long,  as  large  as  life.  Which, 
from  first  to  last,  it  cost  me  fifteen  shillun*. 
A  innercent  young  woman,  nor  one  more 
pratty  to  look  at  I  never  did  see.  But  she 
acted  extraornarary  queer." 

"  Seems  sane  enough  so  far,"  I  com- 
mented. 

"  By  all  means,"  assented  Mr.  Pepper, 
looking  at  me  doubtfully.  "  When  'twas 
time  for  *er  to  goo,  I  offered  for  to  see  'er 
'ome — she  bein*  so  innercent  and  pratty. 
But  she  tal  me  that  will  never  do. 

"  *  Then  tal  me  where  you  live,*  I  say, 
'  so's  I  kin  come  alung  s'mother  time.' 

*'  '  'Tis  a  good  lung  way  from  yere,'  she  say. 

"  I  tal  'er  that  don't  make  no  odds,  'cos 
I  be  come  to  London  for  to  drar  my  pen- 


sion. 


You  goo  from  yere  to  'Ighgate  Ponds,* 
she  say,  '  and  look  for  a  yaller  'bus.' 

''  '  Yes,'  I  say. 

"  '  And  then,'  say  she,  '  you  goo  upon  this 
yaller  'bus  till  it  stop  at  a  pubUc  called  the 
Mohawk.' 

"  '  Yes,'  I  say. 

"  *  And  there,'  she  say,  '  you'll  find  a  white 
tram  what' 11  take  you  to  a  place  called 
Battle  Bridge.' 


Pepper  s  Courtship  331 

"  '  Righto/  I  say. 

"  *  There'll  be  a  policeman  at  the  bridge, 
and  you  must  ask  'im  to  show  you  the  way 
to  King's  Cross  Station.  When  you  get  to 
King's  Cross  Station,  nip  on  to  a  orange- 
coloured  'bus,  what' 11  take  you  to  the  Angel 
underground  electric' 

"  *  Very  good,'  I  say. 

"  *  You  take  a  ticket  at  the  Angel  under- 
ground electric,'  the  young  lady  tal  me,  *  so 
far  as  London  Bridge.  When  you  get  out 
at  London  Bridge,  *op  on  to  a  'bus — a  green 
'bus — ^what'll  take  you  to  Moneyment  Station. 
Take  a  ticket  from  Moneyment  Station  so  fur 
as  Mile  End  Road,  and  when  you  get  out  at 
Mile  End  Road  ask  some  person  to  show  you 
the  way  to  Bow  Bridge.  See  ?  *  ask  the 
young  lady. 

" '  'Tis  all  quite  plain,  I  thank  ye,  miss,' 
says  I. 

"  '  Well,  then,'  she  say, '  at  Bow  Bridge  you 
look  for  a  tram  to  Stepney  Green,  and  when 
you  git  there  git  out.  Git  out  close  to  the 
church  and  ask  for  a  street  called  Pike  Street, 
and  the  third  on  the  left  is  Green  Street,  and 
there  bean't  on'y  one  street  orf  that,  and 
that's  Burbidge  Street ;  and  number  ten  is 
where  I  live.    Good  arternoon,  young  man.* 


332  Cottage  Pie 

"  *  Good  arternoon  to  you,  miss,'  says  I. 
'  And  thank  ye  for  yere  kind  directions.'  " 

At  this  stage  of  his  narrative  Mr.  Pepper 
lapsed  into  speculative  silence.  But  presently, 
breathing  hard  and  gazing  fixedly  at  his 
boots,  he  resumed  it. 

"  I  done  as  the  lady  tal  me,"  said  Mr. 
Pepper.  "  I  started  off  next  mornin',  that 
bein'  Sunday,  and  me  in  London  fur  to  drar 
my  pension  and  not  carin'  how  much  I  spend 
or  what  become  of  me. 

**  I  foUered  the  rules  exac'ly.  Same  as  she 
tal  me,  so  I  done,  and  it  must  'a  took  me  a 
matter  o'  fower  howers.  First  I  started  orf 
from  Camden  Town,  from  the  'ouse  where 
I  lodged,  to  'Ampstead  Common,  so's  to 
make  sure  o'  my  bearings.  Then  I  ax  me 
way  from  theer  to  'Ighgate  Ponds.  Then  I 
gits  upon  a  yaller  'bus  and  goo  to  the  Mo- 
hawk, and  from  theer  I  goos  upon  the  tram 
to  Battle  Bridge,  and  I  walks  from  Battle 
Bridge  to  King's  Cross  Station  and  gits  a 
'bus  up  to  the  Angel  Station,  and  rides  upon 
the  train  to  London  Bridge,  and  walks  from 
London  Bridge  to  Moneyment,  and  from 
Moneyment  I  rides  to  Mile  End  Road  ;  and 
when  I  gets  out  I  gives  a  penny  to  a  li'l  lad 
and  he  show  me  the  way  to  the  bridge,  and 


Pepper  s  Courtship  333 

I  git  upon  a  tram  and  rides  to  Stepney 
Church,  and  find  the  street  called  Pike  Street 
and  another  street  called  Green  Street,  and 
the  on'y  one  orf  that  was  Burbidge  Street ; 
and  theer  at  number  ten,  be'ind  a  li'l  dirty 
gate,  stood  my  young  lady  sure  enough.  And 
there  was  a  ugly  young  bloke  beside  of  'er." 

Mr.  Pepper  again  lapsed  into  silence.  And 
again,  after  swallowing  many  invisible  lumps 
which  seemed  to  be  inconveniencing  his 
throat,  he  resumed  the  narrative. 

"  Direckly  my  young  lady  see  me,"  said 
Mr.  Pepper,  **  she  began  for  to  laugh  and 
sniggle,  which  I  do  not  wonder  at,  me  bein' 
that  red  and  sticky  with  the  perspersweats. 
For  the  journey,  that  had  took  me  fower 
hower  or  more,  and  'twas  a  close  mornin'. 
An'  the  young  lady,  she  take  the  arm  of  the 
ugly  li'l  bleater  as  stand  beside  'er,  and  she 
say  to  me,  she  say  : 

"  '  I  be  sorry  as  you  come  so  far,  for  I  be 
busy.' 

"  *  Simmingly,'  says  I. 

"  *  Your  best  way  back,'  says  she,  *  is  to 
git  a  tram  from  Stepney  Green  to  Bow  Bridge. 
Arst  the  way  from  theer  to  Mile  End  Road 
and  goo  into  the  station  and  git  a  train  to 
Moneyment.    Walk  from  Moneyment  to  Lon- 


334  Cottage  Pie 

don  Bridge,  and  take  a  ticket  straight  through 
to  the  Angel.  From  the  Angel  you  kin  goo 
be  'bus  to  King's  Cross,  and  you  kin  walk  from 
King's  Cross  to  Battle  Bridge  and  git  a  tram 
to  the  Mohawk,  and  a  yaller  'bus  what  stops 
outside  will  take  you  all  the  way  to  'Ighgit 
Ponds  ;  and  'tis  a  pleasant  walk  from  'Ighgit 
Ponds  to  'Ampstead  'Eath.    And ' 

"  *  I  kin  manage  the  rest  meself,  miss, 
thank  you,'  says  I.  And  I  rises  me  'at  and 
come  away. 

"  I  found  me  way  to  Stepney  Green,  and 
got  upon  the  tram  what  took  me  to  Bow 
Bridge,  and " 

"  So  resumed  your  journey  back  to  Hamp- 
stead,"  I  interpolated.  "  It  was  a  strange 
adventure.  Pepper." 

"  Strange  is  the  word,"  assented  Mr. 
Pepper.  "  And  that  was  a  extraornarary 
strange  young  lady.  So  pratty  to  look  at, 
too. 

"  It  took  me  more'n  five  hower  or  ever  I 
git  back  to  Camden  Town.  'Tis  a  long  step 
to  your  sweet'eart — in  London." 


XXXVIII 
THE  EVANGELIST 


"  I  THINK,  sir,"  said  the  landlord  of  the 
Bristow  Arms,  at  Blowfield,  "  that  you 
would  very  likely  sit  more  comfortable  in 
the  little  parlour.  The,  ah,  domestics  are 
spring-cleaning  here.  There  is  a  comfortable 
hottoman  in  the  Little  Parlour,  sir." 

I  bowed  to  the  landlord,  who  bowed  to  me 
and  then,  with  a  solemn  and  heraldic  air, 
conducted  me  to  the  Little  Parlour,  bearing 
my  glass  before  him  on  a  purple  cushion.  At 
least,  I  think  it  was  a  purple  cushion. 

There  was  a  person  in  the  little  parlour ; 
a  person  and  some  people.  The  person  wore 
a  velvet  jacket  and  long  dark  hair.  He  was 
sipping  gin  from  a  long-stemmed  glass  which 
he  held  in  a  manner  that  showed  him  to  be 
conscious  of  his  slender  fingers.  The  people 
wore  leggings  and  carried  toothpicks  and 
drank  beer. 

Addressing  himself  to  the  stoutest  and 
most  grave  of  the  people,  the  Person  spoke 
as  follows  : 

335 


33^  Cottage  Pie 

"  What  I  mean  to  say,  sir,  is  this  :  The 
mistake  which  people  make  is  in  regarding 
Christ  as  an  Individual  and  not  as  an  Idea. 
He  is  the  personification  of  all  good  im- 
pulses ;  He  is  goodness.  When,  therefore, 
I  tell  you  that  worrying  mother  otters  with 
dogs  and  sticks  is " 

"  You  give  us  that  before,  sir,"  said  the 
gravest  of  the  people. 

"  Then  I  need  not  repeat  it,"  assented  the 
Person.  "  I  wished  merely  to  illustrate  my 
argument.  I  say  that  human  nature  at  its 
best  is  Christ.  I  say  that  Christ  is  in  all  of 
us  when  we  act  worthily  or  proclaim  true 
things.  I  am  at  present  drinking  gin,  sir ; 
you  are  drinking  beer.  These  actions  are 
eminently  Christian,  for  they  are  the  reverent 
accompaniment  to  our  entirely  reverent  dis- 
course  " 

"  Reverent  is  good,*'  said  one  of  the  people, 
spitting  into  the  fire-place. 

"  But,"  continued  the  Person,  ignoring  this 
commentator,  "we  do  wrong  when  we  drink 
ourselves  purple,  because  in  that  condition 
we  go  out  and  worry  otters.    Now " 

"  But  what's  the  *arm  in  otter-'unting  ?  " 
demanded  the  gravest  of  the  people.  "  There's 
nothing  said  against  it  in  the  Bible." 


The  Evangelist  337 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Person,  "  there  is  every- 
thing said  against  it  in  the  Bible." 

**  Wheer  ?  "  demanded  the  grave  one. 

"It  is  opposed  to  the  whole  spirit  of 
Christian  teaching,"  said  the  other. 

"  I  knowed  you  couldn't  show  me  wheer  !  " 
said  the  grave  one. 

"  That  is  my  whole  point,"  cried  the 
Person.  "  You  are  always  thinking  about 
words  and  sentences  and  individuals.  I  tell 
you  to  look  at  the  spirit  of  the  thing.  I  tell 
you " 

A  gentleman  at  the  far  end  of  the  room 
took  out  his  pipe  and  pointed  it  square  at 
the  evangelist.  "  Who  the  'ell  are  you  to  tell 
us  anything  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  am  named  Hodges,"  said  the  Person, 
"  and  I  Hve  by  painting  pictures.  The  gentle- 
man with  the  straw  in  his  mouth  asked  me 
to  explain  how  I  could  call  myself  a  Christian 
when  I  played  the  flute  on  Sundays.  I  am 
endeavouring  to  explain." 

"  My  name,"  said  the  interrupter,  *'  is 
Pyke,  and  I  sell  corn.  The  Bible  is  good 
enough  for  me.  I  go  to  church,  I  do,  when 
I  want  to  be  corrected.  I  can  get  it  there 
from  a  proper  professional  gentleman." 

*'  It  is  the  professional  gentleman  whom  I 


338  Cottage  Pie 

complain  of,"  said  the  Person.  "  He  fills  our 
heads  with  words.     He " 

"  You'll  pardon  me,  sir,"  said  a  new  voice, 
a  senatorial,  fruity  voice,  which  I  discovered 
to  be  that  of  the  landlord — **  you'll  pardon 
me,  sir,  but  I  cannot  allow  any  abuse  of  our 
Vicar  to  go  on  in  this  'ouse." 

**  But "  began  the  Person,  when  our 

host  interrupted  him. 

"  We  won't  argue,"  he  said.  "  Let  it  drop. 
This  is  a  properly  conducted  'ouse.  Let  it 
drop." 

"  According  to  you,  then,"  said  the  gravest 
of  the  people,  sipping  his  beer  deliberately, 
"  we  ain't  none  of  us  Christians — only  you." 

**  On  the  contrary,"  replied  the  Person, 
"  I  say  that  we  are  all  Christians — even  the 
wickedest  and  dirtiest  of  us.  I  say  that  we 
must  be  so,  because  we  were  bom  with  im- 
pulses, and  all  of  those  impulses  which  are 
not  bestial  are  necessarily  Christian — are 
Christ,  in  fact." 

"  Really,  sir,"  said  the  landlord,  "  I  must 
ask  you  to  be  careful  of  your  language." 

**  I  assure  you,"  answered  the  Person, 
"  that  I  always  select  my  language  with  the 
utmost  care.  Really,  now,  the  position  which 
I  take  up  in  this  matter  is  not  at  all  extreme. 


The  Evangelist  339 

I  merely  say  that  Christ  is  in  all  of  us.  When 
I  lie  or  kill,  I  am  a  human  being  :  when  I 
play  games  with  little  children  I  am  Christ." 

"  You  are  what  ? "  inquired  the  gravest 
of  the  people,  rising  slowly  to  his  feet. 

"  Christ,"  repeated  the  Person  meekly. 

There  was  an  awful  silence,  broken  at  last 
by  the  landlord. 

"  Young  man,"  he  said,  "  I  must  ask  you 
to  leave  this  house.  You  will  get  it  a  bad 
name." 

The  young  man  evidently  wished  to  argue, 
but  he  was  silenced  and  eliminated  by  the 
outraged  people. 

We  were  all  severely  shaken  by  the  incident 
and  had  to  drink  more  beer. 

We  excommunicated  all  strangers  and 
passed  a  vote  of  horror  on  this  one,  unanimous 
save  for  one  dissentient  voice.  The  dissenter 
said  : 

**  I  can  on'y  tell  you,  gentlemen,  as  'e 
paid  up  right  enough  for  the  coal  what  'e 
'ad  off  me." 


XXXIX 

MR.  TRACEY'S  ADIEU ! 


Mr.  Trace y,  prince  of  jobbing  gardeners, 
has  left  these  haunts  for  ever. 

He  came  here  yesterday  in  the  butcher's 
cart  and  a  state  of  intoxication,  it  being  then, 
so  near  as  I  can  reckon,  twelve  o'clock.  He 
came,  and  offered  insults  to  my  Mrs.  Pett. 
He  winked,  as  I  am  told,  at  Mrs.  Pett.  He 
then  walked  forth,  and  titubanted  reverently 
round  and  round  the  parsley,  chives,  and 
chervil  for  several  minutes,  after  which,  be- 
coming dizzy,  he  staggered  to  the  tool-shed, 
where  I  found  him  later,  slumbering  peacefully 
with  his  head  on  the  lawn-mower. 

Having  regard  to  the  present  preposterous 
and  Socialistic  state  of  the  law  affecting  em- 
ployers' liability,  we  loosened  the  accom- 
plished gentleman's  neckband,  removed  a 
scythe  from  the  vicinity  of  his  left  cheek,  and 
left  him  thus  to  undisturbed  siesta. 

Pleased  as  we  were  to  offer  hospitality  to 
our  Mr.  Tracey,  his  advent  nevertheless  sur- 
prised us  ;  for  Mr.  Tracey  had  been  here  only 
the  morning  before,  when  he  had  put  in  a  very 

340 


Mr.  Traceys  Adieu!  341 

hard  and  conscientious  day's  work,  leaving 
us  at  sundown,  and  leaving  the  garden  more 
spick,  more  span,  more  neatly  mowed  and 
featly  hoed  than  he  has  left  it  "  for  monce  and 
monce  and  monce  " — if  I  may  quote  a  poet  of 
the  people. 

When  the  church  clock  struck  four  Mr. 
Tracey  rose  up  from  his  couch  and  shook 
himself.  Then,  seizing  his  pillow  by  its  handle 
and  still  affecting  a  rather  titubantic  gait, 
Mr.  Tracey  solemnly  pushed  that  implement 
round  and  about  the  closely  shaven  lawn. 

After  proceeding  thus  for  some  minutes 
without  interruption,  Mr.  Tracey  suddenly 
stood  still  and  caused  the  mowing-machine  to 
do  likewise.  Then,  in  a  loud  voice,  he  made 
the  following  remarks 

"  Hoy  !     Hoy  !  " 

We  flew  on  wings  of  haste  to  Mr.  Tracey's 
side.  "  Are  ye  got  a  hile-can  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Tracey. 

We  said,  "  For  what  purpose  do  you  want 
an  oil-can  ?  " 

"  To  hile  this  here,"  responded  Mr.  Tracey. 
"  'Tis  a  ramshackle  old  set-out." 

"  You  chose  it,  anyhow,  Mr.  Tracey," 
we  ventured  to  submit.  **  It  was  a  very 
costly  set-out." 


342  Cottage  Pie 

"V'They  don't  make  mowers  these  days — 
not  to  say  mowers.  This  here  be  fair  wore 
out.    Fetch  me  a  hile-can." 

"  But,"  we  ventured  to  point  out,  "  the 
thing  is  dripping  with  oil  already." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Mr.  Tracey,  "  'tis  a  ram- 
shackle ole  affair.    Fetch  me  a  hile-can." 

**  You  don't  want  an  oil-can,"  we  insisted. 

"  And  I  tal  you''  insisted  Mr.  Tracey, 
'*  that  this  here  set-out  bean't  no  good  with- 
out one.  Look  at  the  grass,  then  !  It  don't 
so  much  as  shape  to  cut  the  blessed  grass." 

"  But  don't  you  see,"  we  patiently  ex- 
plained, "  that  there  isn't  any  grass  to  cut  ? 
You  cut  it  all  last  night." 

Mr.  Tracey  opened  his  mouth  and  looked 
at  me  thoughtfully,  silently  ;  then  he  looked 
at  the  grass  and  at  the  mowing-machine. 
Last  of  all  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
produced  a  richly  buttered  note-book,  and 
looked  at  that. 

"  Begod — you're  right !  "  said  Mr.  Tracey 
quietly,  having  manipulated  this  record  with 
both  thumbs. 

Without  offering  any  further  comment  he 
gathered  up  the  mowing-machine  and  took  it 
back  to  his  boudoir.  He  then  returned,  in 
company  with   an   aphis-brush,  and  lunged 


Mr.  Traceys  Adieu!  343 

emphatically  at  the  rose  trees  for  nearly  two 
hours,  at  the  end  of  which  period  he  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  back  door  and  de- 
manded a  day's  wages.  We  replied  that  we 
had  paid  him  yesterday. 

He  opened  his  mouth  and  looked  at  us.  He 
also  fumbled  for  the  butter-book  and  thumbed 
it  as  before. 

"  Begod  !  "  said  Mr.  Tracey,  for  the  second 
time — **  you're  right." 

He  then  sat  down  on  the  well-curb  and 
filled  his  pipe.  Having  smoked  it  in  profound 
silence,  working  his  fingers  in  a  strange  man- 
ner and  watching  them  intently  as  he  did  so, 
he  again  stood  up  and  uttered  a  further  re- 
mark : 

"  Hoy  !  "  said  Mr.  Tracey. 

We  joined  him  at  the  well-head.  "  Yes  ?  " 
we  inquired  politely. 

"  I  be  gointer  give  you  notice,"  said  Mr. 
Tracey.  "  I  bean't  a-gointer  work  yere  any 
longer." 

"  Why  ?  "  we  asked. 

**  I  be  sick  of  the  place,"  rejoined  our  hench- 
man. "  No  'arm  done  or  said,  but  I  be  fair 
sick  of  it  all." 

"  Anything  to  do  with  our  little  argument 
about  the  beans  ?  "  we  inquired.    **  Because 


344  Cottage  Pie 

really,  you  know,  Mr.  Tracey — no  harm  done 
or  said — it  would  be  foolish  of  you  to  take 
offence  at  my  having  an  individual  taste  in 
vegetables." 

"  '  Taste '  is  good,"  reflected  Mr.  Tracey. 
**  But  that  don't  worry  me,  whatever  sort  of 
trash  you  be  minded  to  grow." 

"Is  it  because  I  insisted  on  having  those 
roses  moved  ?  Really  they  were  doing  no 
good  at  all  in  the  old  place." 

**  They  roses,"  asserted  Mr.  Tracey  hotly, 
"  was  well  enough  where  they  stood.  On'y 
a  old  woman  or  a  old  fool  would  set  out 
to  grow  they  sorts  on  a  raised  border,  and  so 
I  told  you  at  the  time." 

"  You  certainly  offered  a  sort  of  protest," 
we  agreed.  "But  was  my  conduct  bad 
enough  to  justify  you  in  parting  from  me 
for  ever  ?  " 

"As  for  yere  foolish,  soft  ways,"  said  Mr. 
Tracey,  "  I  don't  attach  naarthun  of  im- 
portance to  them.  Grow  yere  roses  in  the 
dick  (ditch)  if  you  want  to.  That  don't 
trouble  me  naarthun." 

"  Is  the — are  you  perhaps  dissatisfied  with 
your — ^with  the  financial  aspect  of  our  partner- 
ship ?  " 

"  I  aren*t  got  no  complaint  about  that," 


Mr.  Tracers  Adieu  I  345 

said  Mr.  Tracey.  "  You  don't  pay  more'n 
you  need,  but  you  pay  it  reg'lar." 

"  Then  why  on  earth  are  you  leaving  ?  " 

"  No  'arm  done  or  meant,"  responded  Mr. 
Tracey,  "  but  I'd  as  soon  I  didn't  say." 

"  But  you  must  give  a  reason,"  we  urged. 

"  You  won't  blame  me,  then,  if  the  reason 
don't  please  you  when  you  get  it  ?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Tracey. 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Well,  then,  young  man,"  said  Mr.  Tracey, 
"'tis  like  this  here  :  I  worked  here,  on  and 
orf,  for  three  year  now,  and — and  I  be  fair 
sick  of  you.  No  'arm  said  or  meant,  but  I  be 
fair  sick  of  the  sight  of  you — you  and  your 
damned  nonsense  and  yere  stoopid  face  !  " 


XL 
MY  LADY'S  CHARIOT 


I  MET  it,  first  of  all,  on  the  sun-baked  slopes 
of  our  local  Everest,  which  is  called  Chalk 
Hill,  and  which  is  well  called,  being  composed 
entirely  of  large  white  holes  which  are  separ- 
ated, one  from  the  other,  by  small,  lop-sided, 
melancholy  specimens  of  the  ever-grey  juniper 
shrub.  It  was  a  two-wheeled  chariot,  con- 
structed chiefly  of  old  chicken-cooping  and 
propelled  on  the  primogenial  or  push  system. 
He  who  pushed  it  was  a  native-born  man 
named  Pontefract  :  a  hay-coloured,  over- 
grown fellow,  of  respectful  habits,  whom  the 
people  of  this  neighbourhood  call  Jack  o' 
Clubs.  He  is,  by  public  profession,  a  buyer 
and  vendor  of  rabbit-skins,  but  he  really  lives 
by  his  wits — a  method  of  living  which  is 
practised  by  hardly  anybody  in  Sussex. 
Therefore  they  despise  him  and  call  him 
Jack  o'  Clubs.  He  steals  old  iron  from  their 
dust-heaps  every  evening,  and  sells  it  to  them, 
newly  burnished,  every  morning.  Also,  he 
sells  to  me  at  extremely  reasonable  prices 
teal  and  woodcock,  which  are  specially  raised 

346 


My  Lady's  Chariot  34^7 

for  him  by  Major-General  Tinker,  of  Bishops 
Bury  Hall. 

The  chariot,  when  I  met  it  on  the  wind- 
smitten  slopes  of  our  local  Everest,  contained 
much  that  properly  pertains  to  the  midnight 
dust-bin.  Also,  it  contained  a  full-grown 
girl.  She  lay  in  a  sort  of  hollow  amid  the 
sardine-tins  and  kettle-spouts  and  furs  and 
spices,  with  her  shamefully  public  legs  de- 
pendent from  the  dash-board — or,  rather, 
from  that  part  of  the  chariot  which  presented 
an  acceptable  site  for  a  dash-board.  She  had 
small  eyes,  crimped  hair,  red  lips,  a  smut  on 
each  cheek,  and  an  expression  of  quiet  happi- 
ness. When  Jack  o'  Clubs  pulled  up  the 
chariot  her  head  rolled  here  and  there  amid 
the  furs  and  tins  and  spices. 

"  Good  marnin'  to  you,  sir  !  "  shouted  Jack 
o*  Clubs.  "  Can  I  sell  you  a  very  curious  I'el 
old  iron  hook,  sir  .?  'Tis  a  very  curious, 
antikew  Tel  piece.  Ton  me  word,  sir,  'tis  a 
beauty.'* 

I  did  not  want  an  iron  hook.  Nor  did  I 
want  a  spoutless  teapot,  a  second-hand  dog- 
collar,  a  leaden  clock-weight,  a  broken  garden 
ornament,  or  a  bag  of  stolen  golf-balls. 

"  Then  what  about  this  here  ole-fashioned 
I'el  bread-pan,   me   gentleman  ? "   persisted 


348  Cottage  Pie 

Jack  o'  Clubs,  holding  up  an  ill-shaped  bowl 
of  brown  earthenware.  "  Ton  me  word,  'tis 
a  splendid  thing  :  one  o'  the  old  sort.  Do  to 
bake  anything  in.  I  on'y  want  a  shillin'  for  it. 
'Pon  me  word,  sir,  His  a  bargain." 

"  Your  sister  ?  "  I  inquired,  smiling  the 
bright  smile  of  intelligent  friendship  at  the 
lady  in  the  chariot. 

"  My  mate,"  responded  Jack  o'  Clubs.  "  I 
fetched  'er  from  down  below  there.  She 
belong  to  a  reg'lar  'ard- working  family,  but 
I  fetched  'er  away.    Shall  we  say  a  shillin'  ?  " 

I  looked  again  at  the  lady  in  the  chariot, 
who  did  not  speak  or  move,  but  whose  big 
red  lips  were  parted  in  a  smile,  whose  little 
eyes  showed  forth  contentment.  "  Did  you 
steal  her  ? "  I  demanded.  Jack  o'  Clubs 
said  quietly  : 

**  I  fetched  'er  away. 

"  And,"  he  added,  "  seeun  as  there  be  two 
on  us  now,  and  'tis  so  'ard  to  make  a  livin', 
I'll  say  tenpence  'a'penny."  Again  he  held  up 
the  little  brown  pot. 

"  Its  value  is  tuppence,"  I  informed  him. 

"  Not  to-day,  sir,"  he  answered  gravely. 
..."  The  clay  be  got  so  dear.  Shall  we  say 
fourpence,  then,  me  gentleman  ?  'Pon  me 
word,  sir,  'tis  a  bargain." 


My  Ladys  Chariot  349 

"  Where  do  you  keep  her  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I  got  some  I'el  premises  be'ind  they  furzes 
there,"  said  Jack  o'  Clubs.  "  Would  you  care 
to  look  at  a  couple  of  very  rare  old  anderions, 
me  gentleman  ?  'Tis  only  a  step  to  where  I 
keep  'em.  They  be  a  wonderful  uncommon 
Tel  pair,  'pon  me  word,  now,  sir.  Worked  out 
in  the  shape  o'  two  young  naked  females,  sir, 
which  I'll  take  me  oath,  young  gentleman, 
if  you  wasn't  a  bachelor,  I  dursn't  recommend 
them." 

I  had  seen  some  of  Mr.  Pontefract's  valu- 
able antiques  before  that  day,  and  therefore 
did  not  care  a  great  deal  whether  I  saw  the 
shameless  iron  females  or  not ;  but  I  did  want 
to  see  the  little  premises.  So  I  permitted  Mr. 
Pontefract  and  the  chariot  and  the  lady  to 
head  a  procession  round  the  chalk  pits — 
which  procession  came  to  a  sudden  halt 
before  a  stretch  of  canvas  which  was  spread 
upon  sticks  behind  a  gorse  bush. 

"  This  be  our  villa,"  said  Jack  o'  Clubs. 
"  And  that,"  he  added,  pointing  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  powerful  smell,  "  is  where  I  keeps 
the  surplus." 

Before  I  could  ask  him  to  refrain  from 
disturbing  the  surplus.  Jack  o'  Clubs  had 
ascended    a    precipitous    monument    of    his 


350  Cottage  Pie 

nightly  labours,  and  had  extracted  therefrom 
the  andirons.  They  were  exceedingly  old  and 
beautiful  andirons.  "  Where  did  you  get 
them  ?  "  I  inquired  of  Mr.  Pontefract. 

"  I  fetched  'em  away,  sir,"  said  that  gentle- 
man. ..."  Six  shillin'," 

"  Three,"  I  replied.  *'  Aren't  you  afraid 
that  she'll  catch  cold  or  get  fever  up  here  on 
the  hill-side  ?  " 

"  Five,  then,"  said  Jack  o'  Clubs.  "  No 
fear.  She  be  one  o'  the  roving  sort.  That's 
why  I  fetched  'er  away." 

The  girl  sat  up  and  threw  a  rabbit-skin  at 
him.  Then  she  lay  back  again  among  the 
tins — and  smiled. 

"  These   evening   mists ?  "    I   hinted  : 

**  the  rain  ;  this  wet  chalk  ;  the — er — rigours 
of  summer  ?  Let's  say  three  -  and  -  six, 
then  ?  " 

**  Four-and-six,"  said  Jack  o'  Clubs.  "  We 
don't  trouble  naarthun,  'er  and  me.  She  be 
one  o'  the  moonlight  sort." 

"So  we  struck  it  at  Four  "  (with  three- 
pence for  the  moonlight  sort  thrown  in),  and 
I  said  good-bye  to  them.  Jack  o'  Clubs  said 
*'  Good-bye,"  too,  and  the  red  lips  widened 
lazily. 

Now,  we  keep  late  lights  in  the  cottage 


My  Ladys  Chariot  351 

where  I  live,  and  sometimes  people  come, 
when  it  is  dark,  and  ask  for  straw  and  shelter. 
Being  Christian  folk,  we  often  give  them 
ha'pennies  or  cheese.  I  therefore  was  not 
surprised  to  hear  a  tapping  at  the  gate  two 
nights  ago  ;  but  I  was  surprised,  on  going  to 
the  gate,  to  find  there — Jack  o'  Clubs,  and  the 
chariot,  and  the  legs.  But  no  red  lips  :  no 
smiles. 

"  I  brought  you  the  Tel  earthenware  pan, 
sir,"  said  Jack  o*  Clubs.  "  Ton  me  word, 
sir,  'tis  a  wonnerful  good  Tel  pan.  I  don't 
arst  naarthun  for  it,  sir — on'y — on'y " 

"  Only  what  ?  "  I  demanded. 

*'  A  I'el  drop  o'  whiskey,  sir,  or  gin,  me 
gentleman,  or  wine.  'Pon  me  word,  I 
wouldn't  arst  it,  on'y  ...  I  think  the  chill 
'ave  took  'er.  And  now — this  last  minute — 
I  think  ...  I  think  .  .  .  Begod,  I  dursn't 
look. 

"  You  see,  sir,"  said  Jack  o'  Clubs,  "  I  be 
carryin'  'er  back  again,  carryin'  'er  'ome." 

He  peered  at  me  with  eyes  from  which  the 
cunning  had  departed,  and  plucked  at  the 
rough  sacking  which  covered  her  (all  save  the 
legs)  like  a  pall. 


XLI 
THE   KENTRY  GAL 


"  From  the  kentry,  I  see,  sir,"  said  the  man 
with  the  toothpick,  gazing  intelHgently  at 
the  dirt  on  my  boots.  "  Grand  place — the 
kentry." 

"  I  call  him  "  The  man  with  the  tooth- 
pick," because  our  friendship,  pleasant  though 
it  was,  and  charged  with  fragrant  recollec- 
tions, lasted  for  so  brief  a  period  that  it 
afforded  me  no  opportunity  to  pierce  the 
mystery  of  his  incognito. 

He  was  a  hearty,  candid  gentleman  in  a 
gold  watch-chain  and  black  whiskers.  He 
had  the  figure  and  back  of  a  respectable 
butler ;  but  the  diamondiferous  ornaments 
which  sparkled  on  his  thick  red  fingers  sug- 
gested that  he  followed  some  refined  and 
profitable  calling  of  a  less  subordinate  charac- 
ter. He  was  my  sole  companion  in  a  third- 
class  railway-carriage,  and  he  chatted  con- 
tinuously from  Purley  Oaks  to  London 
Bridge. 

"I've  orfen  thought,"  said  the  man  with 
352 


The  Kentry  Gal  353 

the  toothpick,  "  of  taldn*  a  ticket  for  the 
kentry  one  Saturday  afternoon  and  'avin'  a 
look  round — all  on  me  own,  as  it  were,  with  a 
bottle  o'  Bass  and  some  sanwidges." 

I  treated  this  project  to  a  few  well-chosen 
words  of  encouragement,  in  which  I  dwelled 
particularly  upon  the  stimulating  qualities  of 
country  air  in  respect  to  thirst  and  appe- 
tite. 

My  companion  nodded  appreciatively. 
"  But  mind  you,"  he  explained,  pointing  the 
toothpick  at  me,  "  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  that  my  idea  in  'avin'  a  look  round  the 
kentry  is  simply  to  enjoy  meself.  Of  course, 
I  'ope  to  git  some  pleasure  out  of  it — what 
with  the  birds,  and  the  blossoms,  and  the  beer, 
and  what  not — but  at  the  same  time  my 
main  idea  is  business." 

He  put  his  head  on  one  side,  and  closing 
one  eye  remained  in  that  significant  posture 
until  I  had  nodded  three  times,  when  he 
resumed  his  explanations. 

"  When  I  say  business,"  declared  the  man 
with  the  toothpick,  "  I  ain't  thinkin'  so 
much  of  what  a  man  might  find  in  the  way 
of  money  (though  I  daresay  if  a  person 
was  to  keep  their  eyes  open  while  taking 
in  the  beauty  of  it  all  there's  many  a  good 


354  Cottage  Pie 

order  to  be  picked  up  from  some  of  these 
'ere  wealthy  squires),  I  ain't  thinkin'  so 
much  of  money,  I  say,  as  what  I  am  of 
money's  worth. 

"To  cut  a  long  story  short,  young  fellar, 
I  got  one  of  the  best  old  women  in 
England,  and  my  idea  in  lookin'  round  the 
kentry  is  to  find  *er  a  good,  old-fashioned, 
kentry-bred  slavey  for  a  birthday  present. 
Don't  you  think,  young  fellar,  that  if  I  was 
to  make  up  me  mind  to  it — take  some  beer 
and  sanwidges  with  me,  the  same  as  I  say, 
and  make  a  reg'lar  'arf-day  of  it — I  might 
very  likely  find  the  sort  of  gal  I  want  ?  " 

I  thought  that  there  was  no  limit  to  the 
possibilities  of  discovery  open  to  a  properly 
equipped  and  determined  explorer. 

"  That's  jest  my  idea,"  said  the  man  with 
the  toothpick.  "  What  give  me  the  notion 
was  watchin'  our  next-door  neighbours.  They 
got  a  kentry  gal :  the  real  sort.  They  went  as 
fur  as  Bromley,  in  Kent,  to  find  'er.  Mrs. 
Gardiner — that's  the  name  of  our  next-door 
neighbours  ;  'e's  in  the  auctioneering — Mrs. 
Gardiner  she  tells  my  missus  that  their  'ome 
'as  bin  a  different  place  since  they  took  to 
keepin'  this  kentry  gal. 

"  My  missus,  she's  a  bit  conservative,  and 


The  Kentry  Gal  355 

she's  alius  believed  in  sticking  to  the  sort 
she's  used  to.  But  look  at  the  result !  Six 
changes  in  nine  months.  As  I  tell  'er,  it's 
more  like  a  bookin'-orfice  than  a  'ome. 

"  Well,  sir,"  pursued  the  man  with  the 
toothpick,  **  it's  my  idea  to  do  the  same  as 
I  say  and  give  'er  a  little  surprise  for  'er 
birthday.  I  believe  in  these  kentry  gals,  I 
do,  and  so  I'm  gointer  spend  a  'ole  'alf-day, 
all  be  meself,  with  one  bottle,  and  a  packet, 
in  the  kentry,  till  I  find  'er  one. 

**  You  wouldn't  believe  'ow  satisfactory 
that  young  woman  is  what  our  neighbours 
found  at  Bromley,  in  Kent. 

"  There's  nine  of  'em  in  family,  countin' 
Mrs.  Gardiner's  mother  and  the  twin-babies, 
and  you  wouldn't  believe  'ow  comfortable 
she  makes  'em  all. 

"  Nine  in  family  is  a  different  thing  from 
two,  the  same  as  we  are.  It  means  nine  pair 
of  boots  to  be  cleaned  each  morning  for  one 
thing.  And  yet  if  you  was  to  look  out  of 
our  landing  window  any  morning  at  seven 
o'clock,  there's  the  nine  pair  aU  right,  shone 
up  like  mirrors  and  standin'  in  a  row  on 
their  scullery  step.  She's  never  a  minute 
later  than  seven  o'clock  in  putting  'em  there 
neether ;    wet  or  shine,  rain  or  snow,  there 


356  Cottage  Pie 

they  are,  all  in  a  row,  nine  pairs  on  the 
scullery  step. 

"  Then  she's  ser  good  to  the  children. 
Washes  'em  all,  dresses  'em  all,  and  gives  'em 
a  bath  each  Wednesday. 

"  She's  a  splendid  cook,  I  'ear,  and  she 
won't  'ear  of  'em  buying  no  baker's  bread. 
She  makes  all  their  bread  of  a  Wednesday 
and  Saturday  in  a  little  oil-oven  what  they 
keep  in  the  pantry.  It's  not  a  small  'ouse — 
nine  rooms  and  a  lorft — but  my  ole  woman  she 
says  that  this  'ere  kentry  gal  she  keeps  it  all 
so  clean  that  anybody  might  eat  their  dinner 
orf  the  floor. 

*'  She's  a  splendid  gardener,  too.  The  other 
mornin'  I  'appened  to  be  up  at  five  o'clock 
(we'd  'ad  a  bit  of  a  dinner  in  connection  with 
my  mother  lodge,  and  I'd  missed  a  tram  or 
two),  and  there  she  was  in  their  backyard 
a-sowin'  beans  and  carrots  in  a  'ailstorm. 

"  She's  a  pleasant,  nice-spoken  young 
woman,  too.  I  'elped  'er  to  carry  some 
parcels  up  from  the  station  the  other  night, 
and  we  'ad  a  bit  of  a  chat.  It  seems  they'd 
give  'er  a  evenin'  orf  (bein'  the  third  Saturday 
in  the  month)  and  she'd  took  a  turn  up 
Croydon  market  and  bought  a  few  toys  for 
the  children,  and  a  tea-cosy  for  'er  missus, 


The  Kentry  Gal  357 

and  a  pipe  for  the  old  man,  and  some  fish  for 
the  Sunday  dinner,  and  what  not. 

"  Now  that  the  weather's  turned  a  bit 
warmer  we  orfen  see  'er  out  of  a  evenin* 
between  tea  and  supper  time.  She  takes  out 
the  old  lady — Mrs.  Gardiner's  mother — in  a 
Bath-chair. 

"  That's  why  I  say,  sir,"  added  the  man 
with  the  toothpick,  "  that  it  might  pay  a  man, 
if  'e  wanted  to  do  a  bit  of  a  kindness  to  'is 
old  woman,  to  get  a  packet  of  sanwidges  and 
a  bottle  one  of  these  Saturdays  and  'ave  a 
serious  look  at  the  kentry.  If  on'y  anybody 
could  find  'em,  there  must  be  'undreds  of  gals 
about  like  the  one  I  speak  of.  Don't  you 
think  a  person  could  find  one,  sir,  if  they  was 
to  look  about  them  in  the  proper  spirit  ?  " 

'*  Why  not  ?  "  I  answered,  as  the  train 
pulled  up  at  London  Bridge. 

"  Especially,"  said  the  man  with  the  tooth- 
pick, "  if  you  was  to  offer  a  small  wage — 
something  quite  nominal — just  to  tempt  'em. 
The  young  woman  what  I  speak  of  she  don't 
get  any  wages  at  all,  yet.  She's  there  as  a 
sort  of  a  pupil — to  learn  the  Art." 


XLII 
TWO   OF  A  MOULD 


A  SORT  of  Uncle  Podgers  person  came  to 
my  gate  one  morning.  He  was  five  feet  and 
a  few  odd  inches  high,  the  same  in  girth, 
dressed  all  in  shabby  black,  and  wearing 
short  side-whiskers  and  a  clean  linen  hat. 
He  looked  like  an  undertaker's  traveller. 
He  breathed  with  difficulty.  His  movements 
were  slow  and  detailed.  He  was  an  altogether 
hopeless  case  of  middle  age. 

He  hobbled  up  to  the  gate  and  leant  upon 
it,  heavily.  He  took  off  his  damp  hat  and 
carefully  rubbed  the  moisture  into  its  lining 
with  a  large,  red  pocket-handkerchief.  After 
some  preparatory  wheezes  and  a  few  false 
starts,  he  spoke. 

**  'Tis  fair  warm  hot  this  arternoon,  sir," 
he  said. 

I  acquiesced. 

"I  be  come,"  continued  Uncle  Podgers, 
**  for  to  tidy  you  up,  sir." 

He  had  large,  mournful  eyes,  and  they 
seemed  to  be  fixed  in  a  deprecatory,  hopeless 
manner  upon  my  waistcoat.  I  hastily  ad- 
justed that  garment ;    and  Uncle  Podgers, 

358 


Two  of  a  Mould  359 

realising  that  I  had  misunderstood  his  some- 
what figurative  turn  of  speech,  quickly  ex- 
plained himself. 

"  In  the  nature  of  your  hedges,  sir ;  the 
grass  banks  and  sich,"  he  explained. 

"  But,"  I  asked,  **  who  ordered  you  ?  I 
am  already  supplied  with  all  the  jobbing 
gardeners  that  I  require." 

"  Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,"  responded 
Uncle  Podgers,  **  'tis  Mr.  Tracey,  your  own 
reg'lar  man,  'e  'ave  sent  me.  Bein'  busy 
'isself,  sir  ;  in  the  nature  of  a  le'l  contract 
job,  sir,  along  of  the  Reverend  Plummer,  sir. 
'Im  bein'  axtry  ornerary  full  o'  work,  sir,  'e 
say  to  me  as  I  should  come  an'  put  you  tidy, 
sir.  Which  I  owns  the  name  of  Tidy,  sir — 
George  Tidy,  beggin'  your  pardon — Tidy  be 
name  and  Tidy  be  nature." 

"  Mr.  Tidy,"  I  said,  "  it  is  unfortunate  that 
you  should  have  walked  so  far  upon  a  fruitless 
errand,  but  the  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  I 
cannot  offer  you  any  work.  Mr.  Tracey  having 
failed,  in  the  face  of  repeated  promises,  to  put 
in  an  appearance,  I  have  already  engaged  a 
young  fellow  to  come  and  do  his  work." 

Mr.  Tidy's  big,  sad  eyes  grew  bigger  and 
sadder.  It  was  some  time  before  he  spoke, 
and  then  he  merely  said  :    "  And  so  you  are 


360  Cottage  Pie 

not  got  no  work  for  me  ?  Indeed  .  .  .  'tis 
fair  warm  'ot !  " 

"  I  don't  know  when  the  young  fellow  will 
be  here,"  I  stated,  "  but — but  I  am  expecting 
him." 

Mr.  Tidy  lifted  up  the  hopeless  eyes  and 
struck  me  full  in  the  chest  with  them.  **  You 
bean't  expectin'  ne'er  a  young  fellar,"  he  said. 

*'  That,"  continued  Mr.  Tidy,  "  be  a  little 
make-up  what  you've  telled  me  outer  kind- 
ness. I  be  too  old  an'  slow  an'  rusted,  on'y 
you  be  too  pretty-mannered  for  to  say  so. 
/  know,  sir." 

"  It  isn't  that "  I  began. 

"  Aye,  but  His''  interposed  Mr.  Tidy. 

"  But  it  isn't  !  "  I  said. 

"But  'fe"  he  repeated.  .  .  .  "Phew! 
But  'tis  fair  warm  'ot." 

"  'Tis  a  arkid  thing,"  continued  Mr.  Tidy, 
"  livin'  to  be  my  age  ;  in  specially  when  you 
runs  to  breath  and  fat,  same's  what  I  do. 
You  will  find  that  out  yourself,  sir,  come  to 
be  fifty-four,  the  same  as  me.  We  be  much 
of  a  mould,  sir,  you  and  me." 

**  Time  I  was  your  age,  sir,"  continued  this 
fascinating  talker,  "  I  earned  good  money. 
Gardener  I  was,  in  a  genelman's  fam'ly.  I 
could  move  more  lively  then.    I  was  a  young 


Two  of  a  Mould  361 

man  much  arter  ye're  own  style  to  look  at 
then,  sir  ;  plain  -  featured  and  short — but 
sturdy.  Pity  but  what  I  never  larned  to 
work  with  me  'ead,  same's  you  do,  sir." 

"  It's  hot  this  afternoon,"  I  said. 

"  'Tis  fair  warm  'ot,"  assented  Mr.  Tidy. 
"  And  yet,"  he  mused,  "  I  daresay  but  what 
the  thoughts  get  slower  come  to  my  age,  same 
as  the  limbs  and  breathin'  does.  If  all  what 
folks  tell  can  be  believed,  sir,  you  be  a  sort  of 
clurk  ;  you  puts  the  black  upon  the  white. 
Now  tell  me,  sir,  I  wonder,  sir,  if  when  you 
come  to  my  age,  what  with  'ard  breathin', 
'eavy  foot,  stiff  jints,  an'  that,  you  will  find 
your  pen  run  easy  ?  " 

I  didn't  know.  I  couldn't  say.  But  I 
reflected  that  having  that  morning  sold  two 
pups  to  a  fool,  I  could  afford  to  do  the  ducal 
thing.  I  therefore  said  :  "If  two  shillings 
would " 

Mr.  Tidy  interrupted  me.  "  'Taint  so  much 
the  money  I  value,"  he  explained,  "  as  the 
work.  'Tis  the  principle  of  the  thing  I 
look  at." 

"  Exactly  so,"  was  my  response.  "  And 
I  was  about  to  state  that  I  happen  to  require, 
for  the  garden,  a  couple  of  shillingsworth  of 
road-grit.    Now " 


362  Cottage  Pie 

Mr.  Tidy  again  interrupted  me.  "  When 
I  be  your  age,  sir,  'twas  little  I  thought  as 
ever  I  should  come  to  sweepin'  roads.  And 
me  took  prizes  be  the  score  at  rose  shows  ! 
But  thanking  you  kindly,  sir,  I  will  do  the 
work  and  grateful." 

I  jingled  his  florin  in  my  pocket — my  ducal 
pocket — as  I  watched  him,  slowly  and  with 
many  puffs  and  wheezes,  divest  himself  of  coat 
and  waistcoat.  Then,  with  infinite  labour,  he 
raked  up  a  little  road-grit  and  then  a  little 
more  road -grit,  and  then  a  little  more 
road-grit.  By  tremendous  effort  he  got  the 
three  little  heaps  together,  and  straighten- 
ing his  back,  he  produced,  with  a  triumphant 
flourish,  the  red  handkerchief,  saying  :  "  'Tis 
fair  warm  'ot  this  arternoon." 

I  thought  of  myself  at  his  age.  I  saw  my- 
self at  his  age — raking  dirt  in  the  same  elabo- 
rate manner  ;  getting  together  "  news-pars  " 
for  some  daily  rag.  And  then  the  horrible 
thought  arose  within  me  that  even  this  em- 
ployment would  probably  fail  me.  They  like 
you  to  "  move  "  in — in  Tallis  Street. 

I  jingled  his  florin  again  and  was  glad  that 
I  had  done  the  ducal  thing. 

THE   END 


THIRD    EDITION 

COTTAGE    PIE 

A   COUNTRY   SPREAD 
By  a.   NEIL   LYONS 

Crcwn  8vo.        6s. 

PRESS  OPINIONS 

Athemevm. — "  Mr.  Lyons  'Cottage  Pie'  is  something  of  an  achieve- 
ment." 

Morning  Post. — "  Mr.  Lyons  is  as  keen  to  observe  and  as  skilful  to 
record  the  types  of  the  rustic  as  the  types  of  the  Londoner :  and  his 
'  Cottage  Pie '  besides  giving  much  food  for  amusement,  gives  also 
much  food  for  reflection." 

Daily  Chronicle. — "  Mr.  Lyons  takes  us  this  time  into  the  country 
and  proves  as  interesting  as  a  guide.  .  .  .  Vivid  and  faithful  sketches. 
There  is  plenty  to  laugh  at  in  these  stories,  plenty  for  smiles  also,  and 
even  something  for  reflection." 

Morning  Leader. — "  Mr.  Neil  Lyons  is  a  thorough  artist.  He  has 
plenty  of  humour  and  sympathy  as  well  as  perception." 

Saturday  Review. — "'Cottage  Pie'  contains  many  good  things. 
Mr.  Lyons  has  the  rare  art  to  condense  a  big  idea  without  spoiling  it." 

Outlook. — "Mr.  Lyons  is  a  shrewd  observer  of  character,  and  he  has 
a  surprising  gift  of  catching  the  flavour  of  a  man's  talk,  and  distilling 
it  in  a  few  terse  lines." 

Daily  Graphic. — "  Mr.  Lyons'  work  commands  otir  highest  admira- 
tion.    He  writes  well  and  has  literary  talent." 

Daily  Express. — ''Every  story  is  masterly,  clear,  clean,  and  complete. 
Mr.  Lyons  is  a  rare  literary  craftsman  and  something  more." 

Scotsman. — "  There  is  a  great  variety  of  ingredients  in  '  Cottage 
Pie,'  and  the  result  is  a  dish  that  might  be  set  before  even  a  literary 
epicure.  Mr.  Lyons  displays  versatility,  insight  and  a  genial  sense  of 
humour." 

Evening  Times. — "  Delightful  writing.  ..." 

Literary  Post. — "All  the  characters  are  so  naturally  represented. 
A  more  entertaining  book  we  have  not  come  upon  for  a  long  time." 

Black  and  IVhite. — ".  .  .  the  old  humour,  and  that  rich  sense  of 
pathos  which  is  so  nearly  allied  to  humour  and  so  necessary  to  the 
laughter  of  the  heart.  Neil  Lyons  is  no  idle  laughter,  he  laughs_  to 
excellent  purpose,  showing  us  thereby  humanity,  or  that  humble  section 
of  humanity  which  he  knows  so  well,  in  a  new  and  more  convincing 
perspective." 

Standard. — "  A  delightful  sense  of  humour  .  .  .  extremely  re- 
freshing." 

Globe. — "Mr.  Lyons  writes  with  genuine  pleasure  and  sympathetic 
understanding." 

T.P.'s  IVeekly.—"  This  book  is  worth  at  least  fifty  sloppy  novels." 


SECOND    EVITION 

SIXPENNY    PIECES 

By  a.    NEIL   LYONS 

Cro'wn   8vo.       6a. 

PRESS   OPINIONS 

Evenings  Standard.  — "  '  Sixpenny  Pieces'  is  as  good  as  'Arthur's.' 
.  .  .  For  a  book  full  of  laughter  and  tears  and  bits  innumerable  that 
one  feels  impelled  to  read  aloud,  '  Sixpenny  Pieces '  would  be  very 
hard  indeed  to  beat." 

Standard. — "  It  is  a  book  that  no  one  can  afford  to  neglect.  Both 
as  literature  and  as  life  its  appeal  is  irresistible." 

Observer. — "The  most  amusing  sketch  published  for  many  months." 

Morning;  Post. — "Mr.  Neil  Lyons  is  a  shrewd,  penetrating,  and 
sympathetic  observer  of  the  lives  of  the  poor.  Two  of  the  most 
delightful  characters  we  have  met  in  fiction." 

Academy. — "As  a  glimpse  of  a  corner  of  London  life  which  has  not 
often  been  exploited,  it  bears  every  indication  of  reality  and  avoidance 
of  exaggeration,  and  comes  under  the  heading  of  good  work  in  literary 
style  and  the  handling  of  unpromising  material." 

Pall  Mall  Gazette. — "  It  is  pure,  fast,  sheer  life,  salted  with  a  sense 
of  humour;  and  the  reader  is  sure  of  being  lured  as  cunningly  from 
sixpenny  bit  to  sixpenny  bit." 

Westminster  Gazette. — "Nobody  who  read  'Arthur's'  need  to  be 
advised  to  get  his  new  book,  'Sixpenny  Pieces.'  The  book  is  as 
remarkable  as  its  predecessor  for  the  insight  and  real  sympathy  with 
which  the  life  of  the  East  End  is  depicted." 

Punch. — "Those  who  remember  '  Arthur's,'  by  the  same  writer,  will 
not  need  to  be  told  what  excellent  use  he  makes  of  his  opportunities. 
A  book  of  which  every  page  is  a  delight,  written  with  humour  and 
sympathy,  and  a  gentle  satire,  none  the  less  biting  for  its  restraint. 
In  short,  Mr.  Lyons'  '  Sixpenny  Pieces '  have  the  ring  of  true  metal, 
and  I  for  one  shall  eagerly  anticipate  another  issue  from  the  same 
excellent  mint." 

Daily  Graphic. — "  The  sentiment  and  the  humour  alike  in  '  Sixpenny 
Pieces '  are  unforced  and  natural.  The  scenes  and  dialogues  therein 
are  leaves  torn  from  the  book  of  nature." 

Daily  Telegraph.—"  Mr.  Lyons  has  a  vivid  power  of  portraying  his 
characters  in  a  few  lines." 

Onlooker. — "A  most  enjoyable  book,  and  one  that  will  appeal  to 
every  one ;  I  must  get  '  Arthur's '  at  once." 

Bookman. — "  The  stories  are  very  much  more  than  clever." 


SECOND  EDITION 

ARTHUR'S 

THE    ROMANCE    OF   A   COFFEE    STALL 
A.    NEIL   LYONS 

Crow^n  8vo,  6s. 

PRESS   OPINIONS 

Times. — "Very  pretty  comedy  .  .  .  not  only  a  very 
entertaining  and  amusing  work,  but  a  very  kindly  and 
tolerant  work  also.  At  t  e  back  of  it  is  understanding  and 
love  of  life,  and  that  most  admirable  frame  of  mind  for  an 
artist,  the  live-and-let-live  temperament." 

Morning  Post. — "An  outspoken  and  withal  a  kindly 
work,  showing  a  power  of  clear  observation,  and  an 
interesting  and  unusual  milieu  in  which  to  display  it  " 

Manchester  Guardian. — "'Arthur's'  can  cordially  be 
recommended.  .  .  .  Mr.  Lyons  seems  to  have  the  animating 
gift  as  well  as  the  seeing  eye,  and  a  kindly  humour  in 
selection  and  treatment  brings  out  the  light  and  warmth  of 
the  stall  rather  than  its  flare  and  smell." 

Globe. — "Fresh  and  delightful ;  by  no  means  does  it  slur 
over  the  griminess  necessarily  encountered,  yet  the  definite 
result  of  its  perusal  is  a  strengthened  belief  in  the  soul  of 
man,  in  tolerance  born  of  knowledge,  in  the  unity  of  the 
human  race." 

Glasgow  Herald — "  Mr.  Lyons  has  to  be  congratulated 
on  his  work,  and  the  reading  public  on  the  advent  of  a  new 
humourist.  .  .  .  Mr.  Lyons  has  a  ready  eye  for  the 
ludicrous,  and  an  equally  terse  and  vigorous  style  in  repro- 
ducing it." 

Daily  Chronicle. — "  Arthur  and  his  cronies  will  live 
among  the  Londoners  of  fiction  beside  the  bargees  of  Mr. 
Jacobs  and  the  inmates  of  '  No.  5,  John  Street.' " 

Aberdeen  Free  Press.  —  "We  can  cordially  say  of 
'  Arthur's '  the  book  all  that  Mr.  Lyons  says  of  the  coffee- 
stall  itself — '  There  is  warmth  at  coffee-stalls,  and  good 
cheer  and  money's  worth.  We  know  that  the  greatest  of  all 
gospels,  tolerance,  is  practised  there  as  nowhere  else.'" 


ARTHUR'S 

THE    ROMANCE   OF  A   COFFEE   STALL 

BY 

A.    NEIL   LYONS 

Cro'wn  8vo,  6s. 

PRESS  OPINIONS  (contintud) 

Mr.  Sidney  Dark  in  the  Daily  Express. — "  A  remarkable 
writer.  ...  In  its  way,  *  Two  in  a  Mist'  is  a  perfect  little 
love  story.  I  am,  indeed,  inclined  to  pity  the  man  who  can 
read  it  without  a  lump  in  the  throat,  and  the  study  o 
Kitty,  who  appears  in  several  of  the  stories,  is  quite 
masterly." 

Mr.  Edwin  Pugh  in  New  Age. — "'Arthur's'  is,  in  its 
way,  a  masterpiece.  ...  It  is  a  work  of  realism  touched 
with  poetry  and  romance.  ...  It  is  life  translated  into 
words  as  the  great  painters  translated  flesh  and  blood  into 
colour.  ...  I  do  not  know  whether  most  to  admire  its 
humour  or  its  pathos,  its  picturesqueness,  its  force,  or  its 
consummate  artistry.  .  .  .  Anyway,  he  has  given  us  a 
volume  that  is  quite  the  best  thing  of  its  unambitious  kind 
I  have  ever  read." 

Bystander. — "Indeed,  we  almost  re-echo  the  author's 
statement  that  we  '  would  not  exchange  a  night  at  Arthur's 
for  a  week  with  the  brainiest  circle  in  London.'  " 

Graphic. — "To  borrow  an  Americanism,  this  is  one  of 
the  cleverest  books  yet.  It  mingles  smiles  and  tears,  as  in 
the  manner  of  true  humour,  in  a  new  setting.  It  is  the 
worthy  epic  of  a  scarcely  known  phase  of  London  life. ' " 

Morning  Leader. — "  Really  fascinating.  .  .  .  The  fact  is, 
'  Arthur's '  is  fine  work  itself ;  it  is  quite  remorselessly 
realistic.  .  .  .  'Arthur's' is  to  be  read." 

Yorkshire  Post, — "There  is  a  laugh  on  every  page,  and 
on  some  pages  a  laugh  in  every  line." 

Literary  World. — "A  charming  work,  without  false 
sentiment  and  without  theatrical  exaggeration." 


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